#decompression and practice! but watch out

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

the cure to his curse

sylus x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || drabble out of boredom that spiraled into a series while listening to linkin park's song - heavy || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is not smut || story masterlist : love and deepspace

previous next

FOUR

The chill of the Onychinus aircraft cabin settled deep into your bones, a stark contrast to the burning resentment simmering within you.

This mission, meant to be just for you and Sylus, felt like another cruel twist of the knife. Rare protocores, aether cores – the perfect cover for a truly exclusive operation, a chance to reconnect.

But then MC had pushed, her voice a relentless insistence through the comms, and much to your dismay, Sylus had conceded.

You watched them now, their heads close, a low murmur of conversation passing between them. Their chemistry was undeniable, a subtle current that crackled in the air.

Sure, Sylus still walked by your side, his long strides matching yours. He still sat beside you, his presence a familiar anchor.

And those tender, worried glances he'd cast your way, the quiet reminders to "keep yourself safe at all times" – they were there.

But you saw how different he was with her.

The easy smile that touched his lips when she spoke, a warmth you’d thought was reserved solely for you. The way he allowed her to lightly touch his arm, a gesture of casual intimacy that felt like a punch to your gut.

You gritted your teeth, the metal taste of it filling your mouth.

The pilot’s signal flashed, green light washing over your faces. It was time. You moved with Sylus, a practiced unit, his evol making the infiltration of the enemy aircraft almost effortless.

You slipped inside, MC right behind you.

It was going to be easy, clean.

Supposed to be easy.

Then, chaos. MC, in her eagerness, her recklessness, had alerted the enemy. The quiet hum of the plane instantly dissolved into the clatter of boots and the sharp crackle of evol discharges.

You cursed under your breath, drawing your weapon.

Another fight while floating in the sky.

Fucking great.

‘Fuck,’ you hissed under your breath, knowing that this is not gonna be pretty.

You moved like a phantom, your evol a blur of defensive and offensive energy.

One of the enemies, a hulking brute, managed to land a solid kick, sending MC sprawling to the floor. You reacted instantly, flooring him with a precise strike.

But as he fell, you caught the glint of metal in his hand – a grenade.

"MC!" Sylus's voice ripped through the din. He didn't even glance your way. He rushed past your still-crumpled form, his entire focus on MC, who lay on the floor, banged up but mostly unharmed, having rolled away from the blast. You saw him immediately assessing her, his concern palpable.

Instinct took over.

A split-second decision. You deflected it, your evol straining, but the surprise of the attack meant you couldn't contain the blast entirely. It tore through the side of the plane, a gaping maw that sucked at the cabin’s air, the sudden decompression pulling at you.

You were thrown backward, landing hard, a shower of light debris burying you. Nothing you couldn't handle, you thought, even as a searing pain erupted from your side, hot blood blossoming through your uniform. Shards.

Then, Luke and Kieran arrived, a welcome sight. Luke, ever rational, moved swiftly to secure the valuable protocores and aether cores. Kieran, his eyes wide with alarm, found you seconds after Sylus had abandoned you for MC.

"I'm fine," you choked out, a lie that tasted like rust in your mouth.

You groaned, a deep, guttural sound as Kieran carefully pulled away the debris.

"Hey, hey, hey… Are you alright?" he stammered, his voice laced with panic. It was the first time he'd seen you truly vulnerable, truly wounded. "Shit, you're… you're bleeding!"

"We're back," Kieran said, his voice a strained whisper as he finally got you through the hatch. "We're safe."

Kieran was remarkably gentle as he moved you, half-carrying, half-dragging you towards Onychinus’s waiting aircraft. The enemy plane was already listing, alarms blaring as it began its irreversible descent.

The pain was excruciating, a fiery agony that threatened to consume you, but you clung to consciousness, determined not to let it win.

You heard Sylus before you saw him. "Luke, keep an eye on MC!" he barked, his voice tight with urgency.

Then, his eyes fell on Kieran, and did a double-take.

His gaze sharpened, then widened in horror as it landed on you, cradled in Kieran's arms, your uniform soaked in blood, pale skin stark against the crimson.

The thought flickered through your mind, a cold, hard truth. Less like the person who craved his validation, who would silently break for him.

He was there in an instant, his face a mask of frantic panic, guilt etched deep in his features. He cupped your face in his hands, his touch surprisingly steady despite the tremor that ran through him.

His eyes scanned your body, taking in the jagged tears in your uniform, the blood that oozed from multiple wounds. "What happened? Why… why didn't I see…?" His voice was a raw whisper, filled with self-reproach. "You're bleeding! So much… Shit…"

You tried to speak, to tell him everything, to finally break through his denial, but the world tilted. Pain, exhaustion, and the bitter sting of his prolonged neglect finally overwhelmed you. You felt yourself falling, your vision blurring at the edges.

Both Sylus and Kieran moved, a synchronized lurch as they tried to catch you. But then, a faint groan, a soft, familiar voice drifted from the back of the cabin. "Sylus…?" MC.

And then, everything went black.

You felt his grip on you loosen, almost gradually, a hesitation in his panic. His eyes flickered towards the sound of MC's voice, a flicker of that familiar, immediate concern.

He looked back at you, a profound conflict warring in his gaze, before he reluctantly, painstakingly, left you in Kieran’s arms.

[mameeta]

Did a little fic for this. It's not what you think, because I am not great at action scenes and what not, but wanted to do a little something for it. I hope you enjoy it.

Down Time

It was always nice to come back home again. Stiles looked out the plane window as the view changed from sky to land. He turned to Derek, who was listening to some book on tape. He nudged Derek slightly and pointed his thumb at the window. Derek nodded and continued to listen to his book. There was a subtle change in his posture though. Stiles only recognized it from being around him for so long. To anyone else he was just as relaxed as he was before. Not a tenderness, but a readiness.

It took several more minutes for them to disembark. The Hertz had their rental ready to go when they went to pick it up. The drive to Beacon Hills was quiet as Derek drove. There was nothing much to say. Both Stiles and Derek were mentally preparing to engage their family members and not come off as weird and stiff.

They had a few years of practice by now. There was a reintegration process. First was a stop at the diner a few towns before Beacon Hills. They never picked the same meal, but Stiles always got fries. It was his way of reconnecting with home.

Derek pulled into the diner parking lot and turned off the car. They got out and walked into a nearly empty diner. Stiles nodded to the waitress when he walked in and they both walked to the booth farthest from the door, next to the window. It gave them the best vantage of the diner and the surrounding area outside. It was a habit by now.

The waitress walked over and handed them their menus. “Let me know when you are ready to order.” Derek nodded and gave her a slight smile before opening up his menu.

Stiles already knew what he wanted. Derek closed his menu and Stiles made eye contact with their waitress letting her know they were ready.

Stiles tapped his fingers on the table as he made his order. “I would like a chicken club with curly fries and a chocolate milkshake.”

The waitress wrote his order before turning to Derek. “Uh, I would like a Denver Omelet with sausage and home fries with black coffee. Thanks.”

She nodded and smiled at them before leaving to place their order. Stiles was still tapping his fingers when Derek smirked at him saying, “Nervous?”

Stiles tapped a little faster before stopping and putting his arms crossed over the table, “No more than usual.” Derek nodded. Stiles looked out the window watching a few cars pass by before saying, “We got about two weeks before he go back.”, Derek nodded. “My dad’s taking a couple of days off to hang out. You have any plans?”

Derek shrugged before saying, “Just that same old, same old. Stop by my mom’s, harass Uncle Peter. Just decompress.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. When she left Stiles took a sip of his milkshake. “Let me know when Peter shows up so that I can harass him a bit too.” Their food arrived and they began their ritual and eat their meals.

Derek drove Stiles to the Sheriff’s office and went off to his mom’s. Stiles was planning to drive his Jeep around while he was in town. He smiled when he looked at the familiar building. He readjusted his duffle bag before walking inside. The office was moving around with its usual activity. Stiles walked towards his father’s office smiling and holding his fingers to his lips, indicating he wanted to surprise his father.

His father’s office door was open, but the Sheriffs head was down dealing with some paperwork. Stiles didn’t knock. He cleared his throat and said, “If you keep hunching over like that you are gonna develop a hump.” Stiles formed an imaginary hump on his back to emphasize his point.

The Sheriff looked up and smiled big. Stiles returned that smile. “Son, why didn’t you tell me when you were coming? I could have picked you guys up from the airport.” He got up from behind his desk and walked up to Stiles giving him a big hug.

Stiles put his hands on his father’s shoulders. “I wanted to surprise you. Plus Derek already made the arrangements.”

The Sheriff looked behind Stiles. “Where is Derek?”

Stiles turned them both to face the office. “He went to go see his mom.”

The Sheriff nodded and smiled again. “It looks like you two are taking care of each other. That’s good, that’s good.” He sighed and walked back to his desk. “I gotta finish this paperwork up before I clock out for the next couple of days. Ask Parrish to drop you off at the house, you know where the spare key is.”

“Sure dad. No problem. I’ll see you when you get home.” The ride home was quick and soothingly familiar.

[christopherisfoive]

LEVELS

Pairing: Changbin x Producer!Reader Prompts: 14. Enemies to lovers tension , 18. “Don’t go. Not yet.” Setting: Studio, late-night session (REQUEST)

The beat had been looping for ten minutes.

You leaned back in the creaky desk chair, fingers tapping impatiently on your phone, trying not to sigh out loud. Across the studio, Changbin stood with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like the fate of his entire career rested on this one snare hit.

"You changed it," he said finally, not looking at you.

You didn’t flinch. “Yeah. The old one buried your vocals.”

"I liked the old one."

You turned to him slowly, meeting his eyes. “You like a lot of things that don't work in the final mix.”

Behind Changbin, Chan and Jisung froze. Chan was mid-sip of his energy drink. Jisung paused with a chip halfway to his mouth. Slowly, they turned to glance at each other—wide-eyed, silently communicating the shared pain of being stuck in the room during this again.

Changbin scoffed. “Right. Because you always know better.”

Your fingers tightened around the mouse. “You asked for feedback. Don’t whine when it’s not what you want to hear.”

From the couch, Jisung audibly inhaled like he was bracing for impact. “Uh… should I go warm up the other studio?”

Chan gave him a sharp look and whispered, “Don’t move. She’ll hear you.”

“I heard that,” you muttered, clicking back into the project.

Changbin stepped closer, ignoring the others. “I’m not whining. I’m disagreeing.”

Your chair creaked as you turned to him. “Then disagree. But don’t waste my time.”

He opened his mouth to fire back—but didn’t. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the screen behind you, watching the waveform quietly. His jaw ticked. You could practically feel the tension vibrating through the small room.

Chan shifted awkwardly. “…You guys want us to, uh, go get dinner or something?”

“No,” Changbin said at the same time you muttered, “Maybe.”

The quiet that followed was thick and awkward, broken only by the low looping beat and Jisung’s slow, cautious chip crunch.

Finally, Changbin mumbled, “I’m not trying to fight. Just… want it to sound right.”

You softened, slightly. “So do I.”

The tension didn’t dissolve—but it curled, subtle and strange. You felt his eyes on you even after he stepped back, like the last word hadn’t really been said yet.

Chan and Jisung gave each other another look—somewhere between “they’re hopeless” and “they’re definitely in love”—but wisely chose to say nothing.

Not yet, anyway.

The fluorescent lights in Studio B buzzed faintly as you sorted through vocal layers alone, trying to decompress from the earlier chaos. You didn’t expect anyone to follow you—definitely not him. But the door opened anyway, and in walked Changbin.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flickering around the room like he was still arguing with you in his head.

You didn’t look up. “What?”

“I didn’t like how that ended.”

You tapped the spacebar a little too hard, stopping the track. “What, us fighting in front of your members? Yeah, not my favorite either.”

He scoffed. “I wasn’t the only one with an attitude.”

Now you looked at him. Really looked. His brows were furrowed, mouth set, but something behind his eyes looked…off. Like he wasn’t here to pick another fight, but didn’t know how to do anything else.

“Well, I guess that’s what happens when someone acts like they know everything about production because they’ve been in a booth a few times,” you said, voice clipped.

“That’s not fair,” he snapped. “I’ve been working on my own music longer than you’ve been at this company.”

“And yet,” you muttered, turning back to your screen, “you’re still in my studio.”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud—but it was full. Heavy with things neither of you would say out loud. Not yet.

He moved behind you then, not close, but enough that you could feel the weight of his presence. Close enough that the silence shifted into something else entirely.

“You’re good at what you do,” he said, voice lower. “I just hate when you act like you’re the only one who cares.”

You didn’t reply at first. You couldn’t.

Because the thing was—you did care. A lot. And so did he.

You just showed it by keeping everything tight. Professional. Controlled. While he pushed back, challenged you, pressed into every soft spot like he was trying to find the line you wouldn’t cross.

And maybe this was it. Or maybe not yet.

“I’m going home,” you said eventually, standing.

But before you could grab your bag, his voice cut in, sharp.

“Running off again?”

You met his eyes. “I’m not running. I just know when to leave before something gets said that can’t be taken back.”

This time, he didn’t stop you.

But he didn’t leave either.

“Let’s try that one more time, Jeongin-ah. You were a little ahead of the beat, but the tone was great.”

Your voice was softer now, warm and patient, the exact opposite of the sharpness it carried yesterday.

Jeongin, standing in the booth with his headphones around his neck, grinned sheepishly. “My bad, noona. I’ll get it this time.”

Changbin was across the room, leaned back on the couch, jaw tight.

He hadn’t meant to show up today, but Chan had asked all of 3RACHA to sit in on vocal comp sessions to help shape the new track. He didn’t expect you to be here, running the session.

He also didn’t expect to feel like this—on edge, watching you be kind. Just not to him.

Hyunjin stepped in next and you lit up a little, laughing quietly as he teased you about coffee orders and pitch correction. Felix arrived mid-session, bringing iced Americanos for everyone and getting a shoulder pat from you in thanks.

It was the same smile. The same voice. But something about it twisted inside him.

He hadn’t seen you smile like that at him in weeks.

Or maybe you never had.

“You want to add anything here?” Chan asked, nudging Changbin with his shoulder.

He snapped out of it. “What?”

Chan gave him a look. “You’ve been zoning out since Jeongin started. You alright?”

“Fine,” Changbin muttered. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t even glance over.

He hated that he noticed. Hated that it mattered.

Because the moment he raised his voice to you, everything changed—and now, you were polite. Civil. Friendly, even.

To everyone but him.

The session wrapped smoothly, and you gave each member clear notes and encouraging feedback, lingering in the booth with Felix a bit longer while he asked about his vocal placement.

Changbin stayed seated. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And when you finally turned off the mic and began packing up your laptop, your eyes met his for the briefest second.

Cool. Flat. Professional.

Then they moved on, like he wasn’t even there.

Studio A – Two Days Later

The door creaked open as you adjusted the mic stand, glancing up just as Seungmin walked in.

“Hey,” you said, giving him a small nod. “We’ll warm up with the second verse—don’t overthink the run at the end, it sounded clean last take.”

“Got it,” Seungmin replied, setting his water down and slipping on the headphones. He was always easy to work with—calm, focused, sharp. There was a quiet rhythm to your sessions together that didn’t need much fuss.

You clicked the track into play and leaned back in your chair, jotting down timestamps.

From the corner of the room, Changbin’s voice cut through. “He was flat on ‘breathe.’ Let’s take it again.”

You paused the track, head tilting. “I was going to do another take anyway.”

“But he’s flat,” Changbin said again, arms crossed, irritation already simmering behind his words.

Seungmin glanced between the two of you, lips pressed together like he knew where this was headed.

“He’s barely flat,” you countered, voice cool. “A little vocal warmth in that line sounds better than forcing it clean.”

Changbin’s laugh was dry. “Since when do we settle for barely?”

You blinked at him. “Since it fits the tone. Since it’s a creative choice. Since—”

“You’re ignoring technical flaws.”

“And you’re micromanaging.”

Silence settled over the room. Seungmin slowly slipped the headphones off, sensing it wasn’t his place to mediate.

Chan and Jisung were off in another studio today, and there was no one here to stop this one from unraveling.

“I’m just trying to make the song better,” Changbin muttered.

Your hands curled into fists, but your voice stayed even. “No, you’re trying to win something that doesn’t exist.”

He stiffened. You could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes flicked away like he didn’t want you to see what that line landed.

But you did. You saw it all.

You turned back to the board. “Seungmin, take five.”

He nodded quietly and stepped out.

The door shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was personal.

“You never fight like this with anyone else,” Changbin said finally, voice low.

You didn’t turn. “Maybe because no one else turns every session into a battle.”

He stepped closer, tension radiating off him. “Or maybe you save the worst of you for me.”

You slowly turned your chair toward him, eyes narrowing. “You really want to go there right now?”

He looked at you, mouth opening like he had something else to say—but nothing came out. Just that same storm behind his eyes, one you weren’t sure either of you had the words to weather.

The studio was behind you, but his voice was still in your head.

You sat on the floor of your apartment, the light from your laptop casting pale shadows on the wall as your unfinished notes for the track blinked up at you. You hadn’t touched them since getting home.

Every little thing about today kept looping. The way Changbin looked at you like you were the one sabotaging things. Like he couldn’t separate you from the producer role. Like he didn’t want to.

You dropped your head into your hands, exhaling sharply.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Working with Stray Kids had been one of the most creatively fulfilling experiences of your career. But lately, it felt like every session with him chipped away at your confidence—at your patience. It wasn’t just professional disagreement anymore. It was personal. He made it personal.

A soft ping pulled you from your thoughts. A message from Chan.

hey, everything okay? you left kinda fast.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys.

Then, another ping.

we want you here. the rest of us do. i do too. just… talk to me if you’re thinking of walking.

You didn’t respond. Not yet. You weren’t even sure what to say.

Because part of you was thinking about walking. Not because you wanted to quit, but because staying meant seeing him again. Fighting him again. And somewhere along the way, you’d stopped being sure if this friction was something you could work through—or something that had already broken too much.

You closed the laptop.

Maybe you just needed time. Maybe you needed distance.

But if Changbin noticed your silence tomorrow—or the next day, or the day after that—he’d know it wasn’t about the music anymore.

It was about him.

You arrived ten minutes early. Not to be productive. Just to breathe.

The studio lights were a little too bright, the coffee a little too bitter, and your reflection in the glass of the booth looked like someone else entirely. Still you—but muted. Quieter.

When the door opened and Changbin walked in, you didn’t even flinch.

"Morning," he said, cautiously.

You nodded. "Morning."

That was it.

The rest of the group trickled in slowly. Seungmin was first, offering a small smile your way. Chan and Han followed, already in mid-conversation about edits from the night before. When Hyunjin asked how you were, you said "good" and nothing else.

And when Changbin started talking through the plan for the day—tempo tweaks, layering ideas, minor adjustments to Seungmin’s part—you simply nodded. Took notes. Said, “Got it,” in the softest voice imaginable.

No pushback. No counters. No fire.

Chan glanced up from his laptop. Han did too.

Even Jeongin, who was just passing through with a banana milk in hand, paused and looked between you and Changbin.

The silence after one of Changbin’s notes stretched too long.

“Y/N?” he asked.

You blinked once, pulling yourself back. “That’s fine. Let’s go with that.”

“…Really?” There was something off in his tone.

You gave a small smile. “Yeah.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like your body had been taken over by someone else.

When Seungmin came in to record, you didn’t follow the usual back-and-forth. Just quietly adjusted levels, nodded at the right moments, and told him he sounded great. Even when he flubbed a note.

Seungmin looked uneasy. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Let’s move on.”

You felt eyes on you the entire time. Mostly his.

Changbin’s voice was strained when he finally said, “We’re taking a break.”

No one argued.

You stood, turning away to tidy up some cords, not because they needed it—just to avoid his eyes.

Behind you, you heard him say it—low and frustrated.

“She’s not fighting anymore.”

And then Chan, quieter: “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

A break was needed. Where would be better than the studio breakroom? You didn’t hear him come in, but you knew it was him. The air always shifted with Changbin. Dense. Unsettled.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. Just kept staring into your coffee cup like it held the answers to everything you didn’t want to say out loud.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he said. “Not with you pretending like nothing’s wrong.”

You finally looked up, but your expression was unreadable. “There’s nothing wrong. We’re working. That’s all we’ve ever done, right?”

He looked pained. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

“Hide what?” you snapped. “That I’m tired? That every time I open my mouth in a session, you shut me down or talk over me? You made me feel like shit in front of your members, Changbin. Constantly. And now you wanna have a heart-to-heart like none of that happened?”

His mouth opened, then closed. His fists clenched at his sides. “That’s not what I meant to do.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“I know,” he growled, frustrated. “I know I messed up, but that doesn’t change—” He stopped himself, voice catching before pushing forward. “It doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”

You blinked, stunned—but it didn’t land sweet. It felt heavy. Messy.

You laughed once, bitter. “You love me? Is that what this has been? Belittling me in front of everyone, picking fights, acting like I don’t know what I’m doing? That’s how you show love?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“But you did,” you cut in. “So what am I supposed to do with that? Just pretend it didn’t matter because you’ve decided now you’re in love with me?”

He stepped closer, but you held your ground.

“I’m not asking you to pretend,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I didn’t know how to handle it. The way I felt about you. I was stupid. I thought pushing you away would make it easier.”

You scoffed. “And did it?”

“No,” he admitted. “It made everything worse. Especially now that you won’t even look at me like you used to.”

You paused, jaw tightening. “I can’t forget how you made me feel.”

“I don’t want you to forget,” he said. “I want to earn it back. Every piece I broke.”

The silence stretched.

You looked away first, arms folding protectively across your chest. “I don’t trust you. Not yet.”

“I know,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “But don’t go. Not yet.”

You hesitated. Your hands tightened around your coffee cup.

“I’ll stay,” you said, barely above a whisper. “But only if you mean what you said—and if you’re ready to prove it.”

“I will,” he said without blinking. “Whatever it takes.”

Recording Studio – A Few Days Later

You hadn’t said much since that night. Not more than necessary. You showed up on time, prepped the session, and avoided looking at Changbin for too long. But he was there—already in the booth, headphones on, waiting for your cue.

Chan, Han, and Seungmin sat nearby, eyes flicking between the two of you like spectators waiting for the bell to ring.

You clicked the talkback mic. “Okay, Changbin. Let’s try verse two again.”

His eyes met yours through the glass, and instead of the usual nod and go, he… smiled. Genuinely. No sarcasm, no smugness.

“Got it, Y/N.”

You blinked. It was the first time in months he’d said your name without a bite.

He rapped the verse cleaner this time—focused, grounded. You let it finish before pressing the mic again.

“Good take,” you said. “But maybe try softening that last word. You’re punching it too hard for the tone.”

“Right,” he said immediately. “You’re right. I’ll do that.”

The room went still.

Jisung blinked. Chan raised his eyebrows. Even Seungmin looked up from his phone.

“Did he just—agree with her?” Jisung whispered to Chan.

“She didn’t have to fight him,” Seungmin added, stunned.

You ignored them, staring at the console, pretending your heart wasn’t skipping weirdly in your chest.

Another take. Another clean pass. No arguing. Just him listening.

When he came out of the booth, you stepped back to give him space. But he stopped next to you, one hand resting on the console, the other lightly brushing your notebook aside to glance at your notes.

“Thanks,” he said, softly. “You always know how to fix it.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. He was so close, the studio lights painting shadows under his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Well…someone’s gotta make you sound good.”

He chuckled. Low, warm.

Jisung looked between you two, then stage-whispered to Chan, “Are they flirting or are we hallucinating?”

“You’re not hallucinating,” Chan muttered, rubbing his temple. “I don’t know what’s happening either.”

You tried not to smile as you turned back to the console. But when Changbin brushed past you—shoulder grazing yours—it lingered.

Something had changed.

And you weren’t sure what it was yet.

But for once, it didn’t feel like war.

[buckysleftbicep]

who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

[mariasont]

PRIORITIES & PRETTY THINGS - A.H

your beauty routine is sacred, but so is aaron's favorite way to decompress. looks like tonight you'll have to manage both

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, smutty smut, kinda free use policy, hotch using u for stress relief, p in v, twinkie (boycotting the name creampie), alexa play CPR by cupcake, AFAB, fem!reader, praise, dirty talk, aftercare, maybe a little breeding kink? talk about kids for like a singular line at the end, also mention of their first kiss which can be read here but not necessary to understand wc: 2.9k

Your love affair with beauty did not have the glamorous, instantaneous sparkle like most people choose to assume. In truth, it began behind a bedroom door barricaded tight against preteen anxieties, something that was constructed by braces flashing in garish shades of bubblegum pink and galaxy purple and bangs unevenly chopped by an overly eager parent.

Yet, somehow, fumbling with frosty blue eyeshadow and watermelon-scented gloss taught you self-expression, how to build confidence from the ground up.

Puberty decided to throw you a bone eventually (thank god), but by then makeup had embedded itself as more than something done for vanity. You would consider it a soul-mate level connection nurtured through midnight eyeliner tutorials, endless afternoons reading magazine spreads, and racking up Sephora points that probably rivaled some small countries economies.

Aaron loves giving you endless grief about your overflowing vanity drawers. Overflowing being his word choice, by the way, not yours. He loves grumbling about the avalanche of cosmetic boxes spilling from your shared closet, loves sighing (dramatically) each time another package lands on your doorstep.

Your face looks perfect without this, he insists regularly, always cupping your cheeks so you’re forced to meet those sincere eyes of his. 

But he overplays his hand — all gooey-soft affection pulsing through his pupils, twitch tugging his mouth upward.

He would never actually begrudge something that makes you so shamelessly happy, even if your spending habits are probably sending him toward an emotional breakdown. Therapy’s overdue anyway, in your opinion.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, brings out Aaron’s inner drama king quite like watching you spend approximately a million years applying the very products he loves to call a sparkly money pit.

You’re wrist-deep in said sparkly money pit when Aaron materializes behind you. Not that it fazes you. Your boyfriend-detecting instincts are now advanced to border on psychic talent (and way hotter than being able to predict lottery numbers).

“Hi, handsome,” you greet, flicking your eyes up briefly to gift him your best flirty, mirror-reflected smile. 

You hope he’s sufficiently distracted by your lips to overlook the fact that you’re still nowhere near ready. And true to form, Aaron’s eyes drop obediently.

His fixation on your mouth is practically Pavlovian by now, something you first discovered when he walked headlong into a door frame mid-argument simply because you had pulled your lower lip through your teeth to avoid saying something that might’ve gotten you bent over his knee.

Needless to say, the fight was quickly forgotten, replaced by a much more enjoyable, hands-on type of interaction.

“Honey.”

You recognize that tone instantly, hearing it countless times before. It’s his signature prelude, a gentle warning shot before he points out the obvious — that Spencer and his girlfriend are undoubtedly sitting at your reserved table right now, politely studying menus, patiently pretending to understand your stylish definition of on time.

And then, right on cue, will come the entirely fair (but completely predictable) mention of your solemn promise to be ready to go the nanosecond his work call ended.

“Nearly ready, cross my heart. Just two more seconds. Okay, maybe three. But four tops. Five, like, absolutely worst-case scenario.”

Aaron’s fingertips skate possessively along your waist, slipping beneath your robe to reclaim their preferred real estate.

“I’m not particularly worried about being on time right now,” he murmurs into the shallow dip at your neck, nose nudging the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your mascara wand skips slightly, completely giving you away. Not that Aaron’s much better at hiding it, his poker face vanishes at moments like this, evident both in the rigid slope of his shoulders and (oh, hello there!) in the very prominent, enthusiastic proof making itself known against your ass.

“Yeah,” you giggle, bumping your hips back against him for emphasis. “I can feel how not worried you are.”

You struggle to fathom how he managed stress before you. Occasionally, you entertain yourself by picturing it — Aaron Hotchner being told to inhale deeply through a mindfulness app? Or earnestly attempting downward dog stretches in your living room? (You’d pay good money to see that.) Or perhaps he’d stress bake, an apron hugging his waist, forehead creased in the cutest serious-face as he glares suspiciously at measuring cups.

Each scenario gets progressively more funny and less believable.

Once, in those deceptively ‘innocent’ days before your relationship became official, you suggested Aaron adopt a new workout regime to help loosen that chronic, tightly wound demeanor of his. Admittedly, you were implying something a lot less treadmill-focused and considerably more… horizontal.

He diplomatically chose to ignore your entirely transparent proposition. Outwardly, anyway. 

What neither of you anticipated, however, was just how accurate your advice would prove. Because nothing drains Aaron’s tension faster than having you trapped beneath him, diligently working out every ounce of strain against your eagerly receptive body.

Which is precisely why, employing your best bedroom voice, you once generously offered Aaron permanent, round-the-clock access to you anytime the mood might arise. No rules, no red tape. Just full, unrestricted access to you.

In hindsight, you should have anticipated the lengthy, serious discussion that ensued after.

Your easy-going, no rules proposition quickly evolved into an impressively comprehensive negotiation, complete with detailed guidelines and exhaustive clarifications.

His eyebrows had knitted together with that intensity of his, repeatedly insisting that you were always in complete control, and then thoroughly checking — then double-checking, then triple-checking — that your consent was crystal clear, until your cheeks burned hot from the combination of embarrassment and sheer excitement. 

Emphasis on excitement.

Knowing him though, you weren’t necessarily too hopeful that he would actually take you up on your offer.

But when he did, it happened so fast, your brain hardly registered the transition from scrubbing dishes to being perched on the countertop, skirt punches around your waist and legs spread.

He’d walked in fresh from a meeting with Strauss, appearing completely unruffled except for the thunderclouds brewing darkly behind his eyes.

Without even a hint of warning, he had hoisted you up onto the island, plunging into you with such sudden decisiveness that all you managed was a surprised little squeak, fingers digging into his shoulders as he split you open in demanding strokes.

Afterward, he casually tucked himself away, tidying his clothes as if straightening his tie after an entirely routine briefing.

He leaned back against the countertop — yes, the one that had been slicked with both your juices — and resumed your unfinished dishes, nonchalantly asking, “Did you do anything interesting today?” like nothing had happened.

Your cheeks run hot at the memory.

“You do realize Spencer will totally freak if we’re late, right?”

“Then you’d better keep working on that makeup,” he murmurs, sliding his hands lower, “and I’ll handle my own priorities.”

Aaron never bothers fully stripping down when taking advantage of this arrangement. And you know that some part of you should be frustrated at that. It should promote at least some token complaint about fairness or reciprocity or whatever.

But instead, the sight of him, belt hitting to floor with a decisive thunk, pants unfastened just enough to take what he wants, well, it melts any kind of objection from your head, leaving only knees feeling more akin to jelly.

You barely suppress a shuddering breath as his cock springs free, hot and demanding against your thigh, marking your skin with a tacky trail of precum.

You attempt to steady your hand, refocusing on your left eye, guiding the wand in patient strokes from base to tip, each swipe sculpting them into perfectly fanned-out strands.

Aaron, however, is far less concerned with patience or perfection. His fingers hook into your robe, tugging it upward to reveal your hips and ass in one movement.

Goosebumps burst along your freshly moisturized skin at the exposure, and even so, you swear the air feels about ten degrees warmer. His right palm flattens between your shoulder blades, tipping you forward, presenting your body like an inviting dessert for ravenous eyes.

He positions himself between your folds, the thick tip of his cock flirting at your entrance before gliding over your puffy clit in sluggish, repeated motions. Your lips fall open on a soft, breathy gasp, eyes blinking dazedly around the blackened spoolie.

A very distant (and honestly not very reliable) part of your brain registers mild surprise at how soaked you’ve gotten. Which is stupid because you should really should expect it by now.

Being with Aaron has transformed you into a creature constantly on the edge, trembling in anticipation, your senses warped in a constant, intoxicating fog of lust.

Living together had only exacerbated that lust a thousandfold. You were constantly surrounded by his addictive pheromones, wrapped nightly in sheets saturated with his heat, body trained to climb him on any remotely available surface — the couch, the corner of his desk, the shower, the bed (obviously), and even once, tipsily, sprawled across the living room floor after a bottle of wine dissolved all remaining inhibitions.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers, dragging his head at your now sopping opening. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty face before dinner.”

“Awh, baby, you know I look even better when I’m —” The retort snaps into a choked-off whine as he pushes into your cunt with one fluid thrust. 

Your wrist spasms without permission, sending the mascara wand skidding haphazardly across your eyelid and streaking your cheek in sloppy black lines. Your pelvis crashes clumsily into the countertop’s hard edge, a sharp little reminder that maybe multitasking is apparently not your strong suit.

Aaron’s fingers card through your hair, sweeping it aside to bare your neck and shoulders. His other hand slowly peels your robe downward, exposing inch after inch of bare skin to his warm mouth.

Tender kisses rain softly down your spine as he draws his hips back, leaving you momentarily empty, only to surge forward again, ripping a sweetly startled whimper from your lips. 

The spoolie clatters into the sink, splattering the porcelain in the process.

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t mind explaining to Spencer exactly why we’re late.”

He wouldn’t dare, of course he wouldn’t, but your body still preens at the implication, cunt tightening greedily around him as though daring him to prove you wrong.

Because, lately, Aaron has grown noticeably more brazen, perhaps due to the ease and intimacy building in your relationship, or maybe he’s finally giving into your bad (amazing, really) influence.

You’ve noticed it in tiny habits, like when he purposely rolls his sleeves up, putting those mouthwatering forearms on display after overhearing you confess just how much they distract you. Or how he picks ties that perfectly match his suits in ways you’ve gushed about, enjoying the obvious ways your eyes get stuck lingering in team meetings.

He’s even developed a charming habit of pointedly mentioning how wonderfully rested he feels each morning, making clear eye contact when Rossi wonders aloud why he looks so content.

He drives into you again, deeper, sending your nails clawing over the marble, arching yourself forward chasing every ounce of friction you can get.

But Aaron’s hand snakes around your waist, palm splayed across your stomach, guiding you upright until you’re pressed flush against him, the new angle forcing pleasure to surge hot and fast through every nerve ending.

His voice rumbles in your ear, “Keep working on your makeup, sweetheart. Or I’ll have to stop, and neither of us wants that.”

“Aaron,” you whine, drawing out his name in the most petulant, bratty tone you can muster, “I can’t.”

Instantly, he stills, cock fully seated inside you. You try to buck backward, trying to force your hips back against him, but his fingers clamp down around your waist, gripping with the kind of force that leaves marks you’ll admire later (like really cute, private trophies).

His free hand slips lower, fingertips pinching your clit.

You cry out, writhing against him. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave, just, please.”

Your hand fumbles along the vanity, nails knocking loudly into bottles and compacts until, finally, you find your lipliner. 

Aaron rewards your compliance by ramming back into you, obliterating any remaining hand-eye coordination. Your fingers wobble uncontrollably, resulting in an uneven, messy trail of color from your cupid’s bow to who-knows-where.

“That’s more like it. Look at you,” Aaron taunts, “Mouth open, looking so damn pretty.” His thumb lethargically grazes your overly-sensitive nub, causing your lips to part further, deepening your pout. He chuckles softly, clearly amused and more than a little cocky as he studies your reflection, eyes darkening. “Yeah, exactly like that, sweet girl.”

Aaron accelerates his motions, hips snapping roughly, hard enough to send you bouncing onto your tiptoes. Honestly, if his dick was any bigger, you’d need heels just to reach the floor.

Your robe begins to fall away from your shoulder, silky fabric separating to expose the swell of your breast, instantly capturing Aaron’s full gaze, pupils blown wide.

His hand deserts your waist, reaching up to cup your tit, thumb rolling over your nip, coaxing it into a tight little peak. You moan helplessly, eyes mascara-blurred as you attempt to keep your lip color within the lines of increasingly messy lips.

“Having trouble concentrating?” Aaron asks mildly, sounding completely unaffected for someone who’s currently buried eight inches deep inside you.

“I’m — I’m trying.”

He responds by squeezing your nipple a little harder. “So I noticed.”

You squirm wildly beneath him, his chest pressed down against your back, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your brain fizz into pink bubbles. 

Your thoughts spin in a dizzy disaster — Oh my god, Aaron, I can’t, wait, no, I definitely can, please keep going, love you, love you, love you, until half-formed thoughts turn into breathless declarations from your lips about how perfect he is, how you’d marry him tomorrow (white dress, cake and vows) if he’d just keep doing exactly this.

His control frays simultaneously, composed grunts fading into needy, unfiltered whispers against your flushed skin.

His words tumble out just as desperate as your own ramblings — how beautiful you are, how he’d buy you anything, give you anything — a ring, maybe even a baby, anything that would bind you to him forever.

The words send you careening into ecstasy, orgasm igniting within you in bright, syrupy bursts more saccharin than you thought possible. Those perfect promises twist around your core like velvet ropes, pulling tighter with every dreamy picture they paint (domestic bliss, pretty nurseries, endless forevers) until you’re seeing stars and giggling between gasping moans.

Your spine bows as you pulse around him, waves of pleasure radiating outward, turning you both into a trembling mess of sweaty, feverish harmony. 

You feel Aaron spill inside you, and for one fleeting, impulsive second, you catch yourself wishing your birth control would magically fail, just this once.

He slowly eases out of you, legs immediately trembling in complaint, his cum trickling down your inner thighs. You slump against the counter, breath uneven, as Aaron grabs a washcloth to dampen it.

The mirror does not go easy on you. Mascara in streaks across your eyelids and cheeks, lipstick color smeared, well, everywhere. You shoot him a half-hearted glare. He has the audacity to return a proud smirk.

“What?” he shrugs, biting back a laugh. “I think it’s a good look on you.”

You wiggle impatiently, trying to escape Aaron’s hold, your overstimulated body shivering and twitching at every careful wipe of the cloth. 

You glance at the clock. “Spencer is so going to hate us forever.”

 “The reservations got pushed back.” He tightens his grip, one strong arm cinching around your waist. “Spencer texted, they’re running late, something about forgetting stuff at home.”

You spin quickly in his arms. “That is literally the first thing you should’ve told me!”

“And miss watching you get flustered? Not a chance.”

You stick your tongue out defiantly, because that’s obviously the mature, adult way to handle your boyfriend teasing you.

The reward, though, is immediate — a soft, genuine laugh bubbles from Aaron, warming every little corner of your heart and fluttering down to your toes. 

He reaches past you, plucking a packet of makeup wipes from the counter, and his touch, as he gently presses it to your cheekbone, is stupidly gentle, dabbing at your face in a lazy, affectionate path.

You melt right into his palm, almost feline in your contentment, purring with how sweet it feels to be touched like this.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Peering up at him through your lashes, you flash a smile, “Our first kiss.”

“Funny, so was I.” Aaron’s whole face shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tenderest smile spreading openly across his mouth. “You know, after you fell asleep that night, I sat awake for way too long, worrying you might wake up in the morning regretting it,” he admits softly. “I had a whole speech planned, this overly formal, completely unnecessary lecture about workplace ethics and chain of command. You would’ve rolled your eyes so hard.”

You giggle, sliding your arms snugly around his middle, tipping your head back to look up at him.

“You and your speeches,” you tease. “Lucky for you, I was already planning how to seduce you the second I woke up.”

His mouth finds the corner of yours.

“Well, you’ve always had much better instincts than me.”

You tap his chest lightly. “So, um, did you happen to mention something about giving me a baby earlier or was that just my post-orgasmic delirium talking?”

Aaron laughs. “I might have gotten carried away.”

“No baby, then? Just empty promises?”

“Who said anything about empty?” He smirks, fingertips dancing along your spine. “I just thought it’d be polite to give you my last name before we start creating miniature versions of ourselves.”

“Careful, talk like that will earn you all kinds of privileges.” You reach up, pinching his cheek.

“Good.” He grabs your wrist, kissing the inside of it. “And just so we’re clear, I plan to extensively take advantage for the next, oh, forty or fifty years.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[freyito]

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ᴅᴏꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠɪɴ'

✭ pairing(s): boothill, gallagher, mydei, phainon (seperate) x reader

✩ in which: they give you some extra tlc

✧ a/n: hiii :,) i accidentally became important at work withiun the first motnh sofics are suuuper slow. ive also just been struggling with motivation AND my grandpa died and then not even a day later i was watching a tornado do its thing right infront of my workplace. so!

✦ taglist: @fffrost, @shinysora

🗒 cw: gn reader, just fluff, not proofread

✎ wc: 1.6k

⎯ Boothill

Usually, BOOTHILL is the one in need of a little extra love. Running across the galaxy for months at a time can take a lot out of him. Even with his impressive will, he can find himself drained sometimes. Sure, he’s always found peace out in the wild, under a star-painted sky, but he still can’t help but crave some sort of human connection, a way to recharge and remind him of what little humanity he has left. He won’t say anything, and he barely shows just how tired he is when he comes home, always wearing that damn smile. No matter if he had killed anyone on the trip, if he had been chased, if he had been damn near blown apart; he is never without that smile when he returns to you.

While he makes it extra hard for you to read him, he can read you exceptionally well. No matter how well you think you hide it, he always finds something. Your shoulders may be slumped, there’s a furrow in your brow, your voice doesn’t sound too confident… he knows. 

“C’mon, darlin’, ain’t gotta hide from me,” Boothill coos, coming up from behind you and wrapping one arm around your waist. “If somethin’s wrong, just say so.”

All you can find yourself doing is huff, and lean back into his chest. He laughs out a soft ‘awh’, before hoisting you up into his arms. He carries you off to the bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

Now, when it comes to TLC, Boothill practically has a checklist. The first task is to make sure you're comfortable, and happy, of course. The second task is making sure your wants are attended to. This usually manifests in him giving you a quiet space while he goes off into the kitchen to cook for you, usually something warm or sweet (or both!). The goal of this is to give you some time to decompress (whether it be in your bed, or on the couch), but if you choose to follow him to the kitchen instead, he’s quite happy with that, too. 

The third task is the most important (to him, at least), and that’s showering you with all the love he can possibly give. Aside from feeding you (which he will do, all you need to ask), he makes it a point to cuddle up to you and pepper your face with kisses. He makes it known just how much he loves you, with all sorts of sweet little praises and whispers. If you prefer spending a quiet night with him instead, he absolutely insists that you come out with him for some stargazing. A nice little night with your beloved under the star-painted sky is a wonderful way to remind yourself to take it easy, live in the present, and just a reminder that there is someone there for you. Even when you don’t want to admit that you need a little extra love.

⎯ Gallagher

Being a bartender, GALLAGHER can easily pick up on any little mood shift. He is also quite good at sniffing out the problem behind your moods, too. It’s actually kind of scary how well he knows you. Stressed? He’s taking care of you. Sad? He’s taking care of you. Mad? He’s taking care of you. Tired– Yes, he’s taking care of you any time he can, and any time you allow him to. Even when you’re being stubborn and trying to tell him you are totally fine.

So, when you come home, a couple hours after your shift was supposed to end, he already had a drink waiting for you. When you completely ignore the little glass and instead choose to practically fall into his arms, his disappointment is immediately replaced with a sense of happiness– Not that you’ve had a bad day, but the fact that you are openly seeking his comfort after one.

“Alright, well, let’s get ya all cozied up, hm?” He hums, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing just a little, then rocking you back and forth softly, while on large hand splays over the small of your back. 

Once you’ve relaxed, he guides you back to the couch, before fetching you a bunch of pillows and some blankets. He quite likes to get nice and close with you, but if you want to move to the bed, he’s happy to do that, too. He’ll still stay just as close, though. He also orders any food you want, those outrageous delivery costs be damned. Even if you want several different things from several different restaurants, he will cater to your whims. This spoiling is only the start, really. 

It seems he physically cannot leave you. He always has to be touching you in some way, even if he just has his pinky linked to yours. There’s always a warm hand on your hip or thigh, and if he can, he’s pulling you up to his chest. He has to be close, not just for the day but practically for the whole week. He always finds some way to come back to you, even if he’s working. He could be stationed all the way across the city and still come home to see you on his break, all for five seconds to hold you.

⎯ Mydeimos

‘Stress’ doesn’t exist in the Kremnoan language. Or so MYDEI says. That being said, his tolerance is much higher than yours. Something about being ‘forged in war’... But he never faults you if you’re feeling down. As much as he thinks a nice meal will make you feel much better, he understands that there is always more to it. While he chooses to neglect his own emotions, and ignore what eats at him, he is almost the exact opposite when it comes to you. 

Granted, he doesn’t like to let you know that he knows you are stressed. At least, not verbally. Something hidden deep within him, something cheeky, likes to keep things a surprise. As boyish as it is for a warrior like him, he truly can’t help it. There’s something about the way your eyes light up and the way you soften when he does anything for you, especially unprompted.

“Here you are, my love,” Mydei murmurs from behind you, placing a plate of soutzoukakia and rice on your desk. “You seemed hungry, so I made you something.”

It was true, you really were hungry. But, you found yourself so engrossed in your work, hunched over your desk as you stared at your laptop. You had long since lost the plot of the piece you were supposed to be editing, and in turn, that made you feel burnt out. The deadline was in a few days, but you were already on the last few pages, and really wanted to get it finished by the end of the day. In doing so, it seems you have worried your lover.

Before you get a chance to thank him, he places his hands on your shoulders, pressing into them. You can’t help but lean back into him, as he huffs out a soft chuckle. He doesn’t say anymore as his thumbs press into the back of your shoulders, but in the back of his mind, all he can think is ‘See? You overwork yourself’. 

He continues to massage your shoulders for another minute in silence, eyes heavy lidded as he watches you relax. He pulls away after a beat, leading you to look up at him. His smile is so gentle, so kind, something you know is only for you. Once he’s satisfied with how content you look, he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, smoothing his hands down your shoulders to your arms. He then leaves you to eat, choosing to go about his day in the background. It’s a calming sort of ambience, the shuffling behind you and the grunts and sighs as he begins his afternoon workout. Sure, the noises could be a little more… quiet. But, at this point, you’ve grown used to it. So used to it, that it’s comforting.

⎯ Phainon

Oh, PHAINON, dear Phainon, nothing gets past him. He practically grew up comforting people, and as such, he understood all your tells before you two even started dating. Therefore, you get pampered before you even realize the stress is setting in. As such, with him, you truly never feel… down. He loves and dotes on you too much to feel like you need anything extra.

Sometimes, however, it does slip past him. He doesn’t beat himself up over it, really, he takes it as a sign to do better. Besides, who would be mad at a little more love? Certainly not you, with the way he cuddles up to you the minute you come home. He’s so damn close to just throwing you over his shoulder and throwing you in bed, keeping you there for a week tops. Probably more.

“C’mon, you and me are gonna hide away from the world for a bit,” He laughs, fingers linking with yours as he pulls you along to the bedroom.

You two lay in the bed, just simply staring at each other for a long while. At most, it’s only five moments, but it feels like an eternity. He holds you so close, legs tangled up, warm hands splayed across your back. He rubs soothingly up and down your spine, blinking slowly like a content cat (despite being more like a puppy at this moment).

For a while, he looks like he could just fall asleep then and there, holding you even closer like you were some plush toy. Then, just as you feel yourself getting sleepy, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then the crook of your neck, then your neck, and one, two, three more kisses to your face– a thousand more kisses to your face. He decides in that moment, when you finally look relaxed and calm, that he can’t let you end the day without laughing first.

© freyito, 2025 | masterlist | queue | kofi | star header by roseschoices DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS

[pathologicalreid]

missed calls | s.r.

in which Spencer answers Hotch's daughter's phone when he calls to check in after a case

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: hotchner!reader, minimal case information, spencer's pov word count: 741 a/n: yooo this is the shortest margotober fic!! but it's so wholesome that i couldn't pick anything else 😭

Your nose whistled with every exhale, with every page he turned, Spencer looked down at your sleeping form to make sure he wasn’t disturbing you. He ignored the buzzing of your phone, Hotch told everyone not to come in until the briefing at ten, so the buzzing wasn’t something he’d concern himself with. He’d rather you catch up on sleep.

Turning the next page, he moved his hand down and swept some hair from your face, freezing when you stirred. He kept his eyes on you, making sure you didn’t fully wake up before he returned to his book.

Last week, a case had gone wrong, and you ended up at the center of it. Physically, you were unharmed, but the way the case went down took a toll on you mentally. You tried to accept the blame, but no one else would allow you to be blamed.

It had been keeping you up at night, thinking you could’ve done something differently that would’ve led to a different outcome. You would stare at the ceiling for all hours of the morning until either your alarm went off or you physically couldn’t keep your eyes open. Sleep deprivation in the field was dangerous, Spencer knew that from personal experience.

So, when the two of you came home from work, decided to decompress on the couch and you fell asleep with your head in his lap, he resolved himself to a night on the couch. If he had to suffer a stiff neck in the morning, he’d get through it just so you can get the rest you so desperately need.

Looking back over at your phone as it rang again, he adjusted the blanket that you had thrown over yourself before finally picking up the phone. He hummed at the screen, your dad was calling you, three times in the last ten minutes.

Spencer looked down at you, your hands folded beneath your head as you dreamt, and he couldn’t get himself to wake you. It felt cruel to wake you when this is the first time you’ve fallen asleep naturally in days, so instead of having you answer the phone, he clicks the green icon and answers the call himself.

“Hey, Hotch,” he greeted, keeping his voice low so that he wouldn’t ruin his own plan and wake you up.

Your father is silent on the other line for a moment, probably checking his screen to double check which number he had called, “Where’s Y/N?” He asked, a hint of fatherly concern laced in his tone.

Watching you sleep, Spencer looked at you as he responded, “She’s right here, she’s asleep.”

Hotch was silent on the other end of the call; he was more than aware of your sleeping problems. Just yesterday, he had pulled Spencer into his office to ask him what was going on with you, which clued Spencer into the fact that you were messing up at work. Little things like missing a checkbox on paperwork and forgetting files on your desk when you were supposed to be in the roundtable room.

Spencer gently cleared his throat, “Did you need to talk to her?” It was a leading question, Spencer was providing the answer on a silver platter, nearly begging your father to just let you sleep.

“No,” Hotch answered quickly, practically scrambling to get the answer out. “No, don’t wake her,” he iterated, “Just, uh… will you tell her I called?”

Nodding even though he couldn’t see, Spencer responded, “Yeah, I’ll tell her in the morning.”

Your dad was quiet for a moment before he spoke up again, “Reid?”

“Yes, sir?” He answered dutifully, his voice just hovering over a whisper as you adjusted in your sleep.

“Thank you,” he responded, matching Spencer’s quiet tone over the phone, likely because Jack was already asleep for the night. “For watching over her,” he continued, clarifying why exactly he was expressing gratitude.

Spencer gently smoothed your hair back, personally grateful to see peace on your face as you slept. “It’s my pleasure,” he whispered in response.

Your dad cleared his throat, “Have a good night, Reid.”

“You as well,” Spencer moved the phone, ending the call before returning it to its place on the side table. Unable to reach you, he pressed two of his fingers to his lips before resting them on your temple, effectively kissing you goodnight before he lifted his book and went back to reading.

[pbaz7]

FINDING PEACE IN YOU: PART 2

paige x azzi

word count: 8k

A/N: I actually got a lot of positive feedback about the first chapter which I’m happy about because I’m enjoying the thought of writing them with a little more maturity. Let me know what you think please! I’d also love any REASONABLE suggestions. Last thing I edited a little differently this time so lmk if you see any mistakes lol

—————————————————————————

It was Wednesday when Paige pulled up to Azzi’s office. The season was around the corner, so practice had been a bit exhausting, but Paige was happy to finally go on that second date. She locked her car before heading inside and taking the elevator up to Azzi’s clinic.

As Paige entered, she was met with a young lady sitting behind the desk. The young woman smiled brightly at her.

"How can I help you?"

Paige gave her a polite smile back. “Just here for Azzi…or Dr.Fudd actually I’m sorry.”

The young lady looked slightly confused, glancing at the schedule in front of her. “Do you have an appointment?”

Before Paige could answer, the door to the back office opened, and Azzi stepped out with Kyrie. When Azzi saw Paige, she smiled and raised her hand, motioning for Paige to wait.

"Hey, give me a second to grab my things," Azzi called out as she disappeared back behind the door.

Kyrie, noticing Paige, walked over and dapped her up. “How you doing, kid?”

“Man I’m good, just ready for the season,” Paige replied with a smile.

Kyrie nodded. “You started to work with Dr. Fudd?”

Paige smiled at that, shaking her head. “Nah not for real.”

Kyrie picked up on what Paige was saying and laughed. “Ahh I see you.”

Paige just chuckled. Kyrie nodded toward her office. “She’s a good one around here, don’t slip up.”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, she’s definitely keeping me on my toes.”

“Just don’t let her work you too hard before the season. We need another chip.” With that he clapped her on the shoulder. “Good luck, kid.”

Paige smiled, as Kyrie made his exit, heading out of the clinic.

A few moments later, the door to the back office opened, and Azzi stepped out, walking toward Paige with a warm smile on her face.

“Hi,” Azzi greeted.

Paige smirked playfully, raising an eyebrow. “Wassup?”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond with something smart, but she stopped herself, catching the playful tone in Paige’s voice. She was still in her clinic, so she refrained from saying anything too bold, opting instead to roll her eyes.

“You ready?” Azzi asked.

Paige gave a quick nod. “Yup.”

Azzi smiled at her again before turning to the girl behind the counter. “Goodnight, Kelly,” she called out.

“Night, Dr. Fudd,” Kelly replied with a friendly smile.

Azzi then turned back to Paige, their eyes meeting for a quick moment as the two of them walked out together, the door closing softly behind them.

Paige reached her car, opening the passenger door for Azzi before gently closing it. Azzi gave her a grateful smile and watched as Paige made her way to the driver's side. Paige slid into the seat, started the car, and pulled away from the curb, casting a brief glance over at Azzi.

“So, how was your day?” Paige asked, her hand casually gripping the wheel.

Azzi smiled, leaning back into her seat. “Good. Busy, but good.”

Paige eyed her curiously. “You tired?”

Azzi let out a little sigh, her shoulders dropping as she relaxed into the seat. “Exhausted.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Azzi chuckled lightly. “I need to decompress first. Maybe later.”

Paige smiled at that, clearly understanding. “Fair enough.”

After a beat of silence, Azzi turned the question back on Paige. “How was practice today?”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “I feel like Chris tried to kill us.”

Azzi laughed at this knowing Paige had a small tendency to be dramatic sometimes. “Really? What happened?”

Paige let out a deep sigh. “A lot of conditioning today. When we weren't running, it was just drilling plays in our heads, non-stop. Then we went straight to the weight room after.”

Azzi hummed thoughtfully, trying to picture it. “What kind of exercises did they have you doing?”

“Plyometrics, for the most part I think,” Paige replied, glancing over at Azzi briefly.

Azzi took that in, thinking about how intense that kind of training could be.

Paige shot her a quick look. “They doing me right, doc?”

Azzi grinned, laughing softly. “Just fine.”

Paige smiled at the praise before Azzi added, “But, you should probably put some heat on your knees tonight. Plyometrics can really wear them down.”

Paige chuckled. “Yes ma’am.

The comfortable silence stretched between them as Paige gave Azzi a moment to decompress after her long day at work. The hum of the city outside the car was a steady background noise, but Azzi didn’t seem to mind, relaxing into the seat.

After about 15 minutes Paige’s car slowed to a stop in front of a building, and Azzi's eyes flickered out the window, confused. She spotted a man in a suit walking toward the car, and she turned to Paige raising her eyebrow.

"Where are we?" Azzi asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

Paige just smiled, her eyes twinkling. "You'll see," she said, keeping the secret for a little longer. She then added, "Don’t move," before getting out of the car.

Azzi watched as Paige handed the man her keys. Paige then walked around to open Azzi's door, extending her hand to help her out. Azzi took it, allowing herself to be guided out of the car.

Paige pressed a gentle hand to the small of Azzi’d back leading her up a set of stairs.

When they reached the top, the door opened softly and a man smiled politely at them. He nodded in greeting before shutting the door behind them.

They walked into the building, and Paige led Azzi to a waiting elevator. The doors opened immediately, and they stepped inside. As the elevator began its ascent, the soft sound of live jazz music began to trickle through the air, instantly filling the quiet space between them.

Azzi's smile grew a little as the sound wrapped around her, setting the mood for the evening. She looked at Paige, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "A speakeasy?" she asked, her voice filled with intrigue.

Paige grinned. "Yeah, I've been here a few times. It’s pretty private. The music's good and the drinks are great."

Azzi nodded, clearly impressed. "I like the sound of that."

When the elevator doors slid open, the warm, rich tones of the jazz band flowed more freely, setting a relaxed yet intimate ambiance. The lighting was dim, but not too dark—it was just the right amount of cozy.

Paige led them toward a booth near the corner of the room. As they approached, Azzi couldn't help but notice the view—it was perfect, giving them a full view of the entire space while still feeling private and secluded. The low murmur of conversation and clinking of glasses mixed with the soothing jazz, making the atmosphere feel like a secret escape.

They settled into the booth, the cushioned seats welcoming them with a softness. Paige slid in first, then made room for Azzi to join her. As they both relaxed into their seats, Azzi couldn’t help but glance around, taking in the cozy, yet upscale vibe of the place.

Paige smiled, catching Azzi’s gaze. "I thought you might like it."

Azzi looked at her, a soft smile on her face. "I do. This is...perfect."

Paige smiled back at her, not saying anything for a moment as they simply shared a look. Paige held her gaze, her eyes soft, before she finally said, “Good.”

“How’d you find it?”

Paige leaned back slightly in her seat, folding her hands in front of her. “Arike told me about it, maybe like my second year on the team. She got all the best spots.”

Azzi hummed thoughtfully, nodding as she took in this new bit of information.

Before Azzi could respond, the waiter approached their table with a friendly smile.

Paige turned her attention to Azzi. “You prefer sweet, right?” she asked, as if it were a casual question, though she clearly already knew the answer.

Azzi nodded. Paige glanced at the menu for a brief moment before making a decision.

“I think she’ll like the frozen blue moscato margarita,” Paige said, looking at the waiter. “And can I just have a sazerac?”

The waiter smiled at Paige’s confidence. “Of course. I’ll get those right out.”

As the waiter walked away, Paige turned back toward Azzi, only to find her already watching her, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. Paige huffed out a small laugh, leaning back in her seat.

“What?” Paige asked, raising an eyebrow.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How’d you know I like sweet cocktails?”

Paige shrugged, her small smile crowing. “You mentioned it on the phone one day I think.”

Azzi quirked an eyebrow, as if considering whether or not to challenge Paige on the matter. Paige just shrugged again, nonchalantly. “What can I say? I pay attention.”

“Hm,” Azzi murmured, her lips curling up at the corners.

Paige shook her head with a laugh, not offering any immediate response. The two of them talked a little as they walked for their drinks, both of them deciding that they weren’t really in the mood for any food. A small time later the waiter set the glasses down in front of them. Azzi's margarita was a vibrant shade of blue, served with a rim of salt, while Paige's sazerac sat in front of her, the amber liquid catching the light.

Azzi took a sip and immediately her eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Wow, this is amazing,” she said, her voice filled with genuine surprise.

Paige smirked. “I knew you’d like it.”

They both settled into a comfortable silence for a moment. Azzi’s eyes drifted toward the live band, the gentle rhythm of jazz filling the air around them. Paige, on the other hand, kept her gaze on Azzi, her eyes observant, like she was trying to figure something out.

Finally, Paige broke the silence, her voice casual but with a hint of curiosity. “How are you single?”

Azzi blinked, momentarily thrown off guard, before she met Paige’s eyes. “What?”

Paige repeated herself. “How are you single?”

Azzi laughed at the question. “Have you seen the dating scene in Dallas?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as if the answer was obvious.

Paige chuckled, the corner of her lips curling into a smirk. “Fair point. It’s not exactly the best place.”

Azzi laughed again, nodding as she took another sip of her margarita. “But honestly? It’s a combination of a lot.” She pauses a moment to think before saying, “Most people didn’t understand my schedule. They hear that I have a private clinic and think I can just show up to work whenever I want or not go in at all.”

Paige nodded, listening fully, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s as she leaned back in her seat, her arm casually thrown over the back of the booth. “That’s crazy. If anything I’d expect you to work more than the average 9-5 most days.”

Azzi’s expression softened slightly as she continued. “Yeah. I have to know these people’s bodies better than they do. That takes time. It’s not just a job I can pick up and drop whenever I feel like it. Taking on a new client is a huge commitment.”

Paige hummed in understanding, her gaze softening as she took in Azzi’s words. “I get that. It’s definitely a big part of who you are, so I’m sorry it’s been a struggle finding someone who understands that.”

Azzi nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But, it’s not just the work. Money’s been a big thing too, unfortunately.” She paused for a beat, once again gathering her thoughts. “I don’t mind making more than who I’m seeing, but a lot of times, me making more led to them not wanting to make decisions or to not step on my toes. Which led to me being the more dominant one, and that’s just not my preference.”

Paige hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving Azzi as she talked. “I feel you,” she said softly.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her gaze curious as she turned to Paige. “Do you?”

Paige gave a little shrug, a small smirk curling on her lips. “I mean, I’ve just noticed that you have more of a feminine energy so I’m not surprised at that being a deal breaker if you have to step outside of it.”

Azzi’s gaze softened as she took a moment before answering. “You make it happen naturally,” she said, honestly. “You have this natural masculine energy. And besides that, you naturally lead. It makes it easy to just be at ease and let you be in control. I don’t have to worry about anything.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, a slight grin tugging at her lips. “How so?”

Azzi glanced down at her drink for a moment, then back up at Paige with a slight tilt of her head. “Well, it’s not just the way you carry yourself, it’s the way you make decisions, the way you’re comfortable in your skin.” Azzi let out a soft sigh, her eyes softening. “It’s...kind of magnetic, actually.”

Paige smirked, as she licked her lips, clearly intrigued by Azzi's words. “I like that.”

Azzi’s eyes flashed with a mix of playfulness as she took a slow sip of her drink, savoring the taste before lowering the glass. Her voice became low and almost suggestive as she tilted her head, watching Paige carefully. “You like what?”

The way Azzi said it caught Paige off guard. It was different…flirtatious. A slight shift in the air, like the conversation had crossed an unspoken line. Paige froze for a second, blinking, a bit surprised.

Paige adjusted in the booth slightly, leaning in just a little closer as she met Azzi's gaze. Her voice dropped. “There’s a lot I like about you, Azzi.”

The way Paige said it made Azzi’s breath hitch in her chest. She knew Paige would match her energy but she wasn’t prepared when she felt her heart flutter in a way she hadn’t felt in...a long time.

Her eyes dropped as she reached for her drink again, trying to hide the small, shy smile that crept onto her lips.

Paige noticed. And it made her smile too— that soft, amused smile she always seemed to give Azzi when she caught her slipping.

“What?” Azzi asked, feeling Paige's eyes still on her.

Paige shook her head. “Nothing. You’re just cute when you act all shy like that.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile that was still on her face. “I’m not shy.”

Paige smirked, leaning back against the booth, her arm stretched along the back as her eyes lazily traced over Azzi. “Mhm. Sure you’re not.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes slightly, biting back a smile as she tilted her head toward Paige. “Are you seeing anyone else?”

Paige’s smirk softened into a smile as she shook her head. “No.” Her gaze lingered on Azzi as she asked, “You?”

Azzi shook her head. “No.”

Paige hummed at her response, letting the moment settle between them.

Azzi watched her for a moment before asking, “Why not?”

Paige let out a soft chuckle, running her tongue over her bottom lip as she glanced down briefly. “Never really had plans to be in the dating scene in the first place.”

Azzi raised a brow. “So...what do you call this?”

Paige’s eyes flicked back up to meet hers, her smile growing a little wider. “We’re dating,” she said simply. “I’m just saying I’m not interested in dating anyone else.”

Azzi felt her chest tighten at the words, her eyes lingering on Paige a little longer than she meant to.

“Why is that?” Azzi asked softly.

Paige held her gaze for a moment before exhaling. “You want the laundry list... or the short text version?”

“Whichever you prefer,” Azzi replied simply.

Paige chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “I haven't dated in like... a year and a half, honestly.” She paused for a second, as she thought about how she was going to explain. “After I got sole custody of Lukas early on, I didn’t even think about dating for that first year. I tried again when he was probably around 18 months—mostly because my friends wouldn’t stop bugging me about it. And.. it was,” Paige let out a laugh, “I don’t even know.”

Azzi smiled, resting her chin on her hand as she leaned into the conversation. “What do you mean?”

Paige shook her head. “A lot of gold diggers... a lot of crazy folks.”

Azzi laughed at that, shaking her head. “Dallas is full of them.”

Paige smiled at her reaction but then exhaled, her tone softening. “But honestly...having Lukas just made it harder. I didn’t want to bring just anybody around him. And with my schedule...a lot of people thought they’d get whatever free time I had. They’d get offended when I wouldn’t let them meet him. Shit like that.”

Azzi nodded slowly, taking in her words. “That makes sense. You're protecting him.”

“Yeah,” Paige said simply. She leaned back a little, fingers running over the edge of her glass. “It’s not really just about finding someone I’m interested in or attracted to. I gotta be okay with them being around him.”

Azzi hummed at that, mulling over her response before shifting gears. “Second question.”

Paige smiled, tilting her head slightly. “Go ahead.”

Azzi took a small sip of her drink before setting it back down. “What have you been doing since then?”

Paige chuckled. “I think you know the answer to that Azzi.”

Azzi gave a small shrug. “I was taught to hear things straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Paige let out a laugh at Azzi’s persistence. “I’ve slept around here and there.” She paused, swirling the last bit of her drink in the glass. “Mostly during the season, when I’m traveling, in hotels, and Lukas isn’t with me.”

Azzi hummed at this, her expression unreadable.

“I can tell you have questions.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, as she mulled over her words. “I just want to know the quantity.”

“I promise it’s not as much as you think.” She met Azzi’s gaze her lips still curved in amusement. “I’ve slept with maybe seven people in the last year.”

Azzi arched an eyebrow, nodding as she processed that answer. “Hm.”

Paige grinned. “That a good ‘hm’ or a bad ‘hm’?”

Azzi tilted her head side to side. “It’s more of a…‘that’s not the vibe you give off’ hm.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her smile deepening. “And what vibe do I give off?”

Azzi, knowing they were both the type to prefer blunt honesty over sugar coating said, “That you used to sleep with a new girl every week.”

Paige didn’t even flinch. If anything, the accusation amused her. She exhaled a small laugh, tilting her glass slightly as she looked at Azzi. “I think that just means you think I’m charming. I actually think I remember you saying that last week.”

Azzi let out another soft hum, but this time, a smirk tugged at her lips. Her eyes held a glint as she took another sip of her drink before adding, “I’m surprised you haven’t made a move.”

Paige just grinned at that, her gaze steady on Azzi. Her voice was smooth as she said, “I’m respectful.”

Azzi rolled her eyes at Paige’s comment. “Alright, last question about other women I promise.”

Paige nodded, tilting her glass toward Azzi in a silent go-ahead.

Azzi studied her for a moment before asking, “Were you married to Lukas’s other mom?”

Paige let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Funny enough, no.”

That caught Azzi a little off guard. “Really?”

“Yeah. She refused to sign a prenup.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh.”

“Right,” Paige said knowingly, swirling the drink in her hand.

Azzi hesitated before asking, “So…how did Lukas come about?”

Paige leaned back, resting her arm along the back of the booth again. “I wanted a kid,” she said simply. “I was going through a lot and felt like something was missing in my life, and I’m a big family person.”

Azzi hesitated again, and before she could even voice her next question, Paige answered it for her. “We were planning on getting married before she gave birth, but she wouldn’t sign the prenup, which fucked shit up. She accused me of not trusting her and listening to my family over her and it pissed me off when I saw just how adamant she was about not signing it. Made me second guess a lot.” Paige exhaled, shaking her head slightly before continuing. “So maybe two months after she gave birth and realized she wasn’t gonna have full access to my money, the idea of having a newborn didn’t sound all that appealing I guess. One day my family and I went out with him, she said she was tired and wanted to stay back to rest. When I got back she was just gone and half my shit was gone with her. Few weeks later I got a letter in the mail saying she voluntarily relinquished her rights to Lukas and that was that.”

“Paige I—I’m so sorry.”

Paige just shrugged, seemingly completely unfazed by the whole thing now. “It is what it is.”

“Does he ask about her at all?”

Paige shook her head, her expression relaxed. “Nah. Like I said, she left when he was only a few months old.” She took another sip of her drink before setting it down with a soft laugh. “All that kid cares about is that his mom’s the best basketball player in the world in his mind and that everyone says we look just alike.” A fond smile crossed her lips as she added, “He points it out every time I call him funny looking.”

Azzi laughed, the warmth in her eyes clear as Paige talked. “He isn’t wrong.”

Paige groaned playfully. “Don’t tell him that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Azzi smiled at her, the sincerity in her voice evident as she said, “You’ve done a great job with him.”

The words caught Paige off guard, touching something deep within her chest. She glanced down for a moment, a small smile forming as she tried to hide the faint redness creeping onto her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Azzi, noticing the slight flush, grinned as she angled her head to get a better look. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “There’s no way you just blushed.”

Paige rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but the smile stayed on her lips. “Shut up.”

There’s a small silence before Paige looks up saying, “You?”

Azzi looks confused so Paige adds “What you been doing if not dating?”

Azzi’s laugh was soft as she leaned back slightly. “Nothing. I don’t just sleep with people if I don’t see it going somewhere..”

Paige wasn’t surprised. She had already gotten the sense that Azzi was intentional about most things in her life, and this area would be no different.

Azzi continued, wanting to give an explanation. “I think the kind of intimacy you have when it comes to sex and who you have it with has a lot of implications—for your psyche, your emotional state, just your overall well-being. So, I’m particular, to say the least.”

Paige nodded in understanding. “I get that.”

Azzi raised a brow. “You do?”

Paige hummed in confirmation, taking a sip of her drink.

Azzi studied her for a moment before pressing further. “So if I didn’t want to sleep with you for a few months, you’d be perfectly fine with that?”

Paige’s fingers twitched slightly against her glass, a reaction Azzi didn’t miss.

Still, Paige smirked, keeping her composure. “Yup. Sure would.”

Azzi leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper, her breath warm near Paige’s ear. “I have a hard time believing that.”

Paige’s jaw tightened just slightly, her smirk faltering for only a second before she recovered. She exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re a tease,” she murmured.

Azzi didn’t move back. If anything, she leaned in just a fraction closer, the air between them thinning. “I seem like a tease?”

Paige didn’t turn to look at her. Instead, she kept her gaze forward, taking another long sip of her drink. “Mhm,” she hummed, casual, like this wasn’t affecting her in the slightest.

Azzi, of course, saw right through that.

With an almost lazy elegance, she reached out and brushed an invisible speck of lint from Paige’s sleeve, the touch light—barely there—but enough to make Paige’s fingers twitch again against her glass again. Azzi smiled to herself.

“I think you’re a little off there,” she murmured. Azzi let her fingers trail just a little longer than necessary before pulling back, picking up her drink again. “I’m not a tease, Paige.”

Paige let out a slow breath, finally turning to face her, one brow raised in skepticism. “No?”

Azzi tilted her head, eyes flickering to Paige’s lips before meeting her gaze again. “No,” she confirmed.

Paige smiled at Azzi and shook her head just a little as she finished off her drink. Then, rising gracefully from the booth, she extended her hand. “Let’s dance.”

Azzi accepted Paige’s hand, and with a gentle tug, Paige effortlessly pulled her up.

Azzi let herself be pulled up, the warmth of Paige’s hand firm against hers. The slight tug brought her just a little closer than expected, her body brushing against Paige’s for the briefest moment before they settled into place. Paige’s arm wrapped around her waist and Azzi let her own hand rest lightly on the back of Paige’s neck, fingers grazing the soft hair at her nape.

Their other hands remained joined, held slightly off to the side as they began to sway in time with the smooth jazz playing in the background.

Paige’s touch was steady, as she effortlessly led without force, and Azzi followed easily. It was natural—like they had danced together a hundred times before. Paige’s thumb brushed over the back of Azzi’s hand absentmindedly, and Azzi smiled, her eyes flicking up to meet Paige’s.

“You dance like you do everything else,” Azzi murmured, voice just loud enough for Paige to hear.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Azzi’s smile grew, her fingers trailing just slightly at the back of Paige’s neck. “Confident. In control.” She tilted her head slightly. “Intentional.”

Paige smirked at this. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Azzi leaned her head down to rest on Paige’s shoulder, and Paige could feel the small smile that Azzi tried to hide. “It’s not,” Azzi murmured, her fingers tracing absent patterns at the nape of Paige’s neck.

They swayed in comfortable silence, the soft jazz wrapping around them, the world outside their little bubble fading into the background.

Eventually, Azzi shifted slightly, tilting her head to rest fully against Paige’s shoulder, her breath warm against Paige’s collarbone. “This is nice,” she whispered.

Paige’s hold on her tightened slightly, her thumb brushing slow circles against Azzi’s back. “Yeah?” she murmured, glancing down at her.

Azzi hummed in confirmation, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as she let herself fall into a calm that she hadn’t felt all day.

Neither of them knew how long they stayed like that, just swaying to the music, lost in their respective thoughts. The warmth between them, the slow rhythm of their movements—it all felt so natural, so easy.

Eventually, Azzi shifted, pulling back slightly to look at Paige.

Paige met her gaze. “Wassup?”

Azzi hesitated for just a second, searching Paige’s face before speaking. “Do you wanna go back to mine?”

Paige’s lips curled into a soft smile. “I’d like that.”

Azzi nodded and without another word, Paige pulled a few bills from her wallet and tossed them on the table before reaching for Azzi’s hand and the two of them made their way toward the elevator.

Once the valet pulled up with Paige's car, like clockwork, Paige stepped forward and opened the passenger door for Azzi.

Azzi slid into the seat offering a quiet, “Thank you,” before settling in. Paige shut the door behind her before making her way to the driver’s side.

When she got in, she noticed Azzi messing with the cord. Paige raised an eyebrow as she fastened her seatbelt. “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting on music.”

Paige scoffed. “You’re putting on music? In my car?”

Azzi didn’t even look up from her phone. “Yes.”

Paige couldn't help but smile. “You know how I feel about music.”

“I’m aware.” Azzi continued scrolling through her playlist before finally selecting one.

Paige sighed, shaking her head as she pulled away from the curb. “Better not be trash.”

The drive to Azzi’s house was quiet, the only sounds filling the car being the music Azzi had chosen. Paige, surprisingly, didn’t complain about a single song, which Azzi took note of with a small, satisfied smile.

When they pulled up to Azzi’s house, rain was still coming down steadily. So Azzi tapped the button to open the garage, allowing Paige to pull in next to her car.

As soon as Paige shut off the engine and caught sight of Azzi’s car, her eyes widened. She turned to Azzi with a look of pure offense. “It’s a crime that you never drive this.”

Azzi let out a laugh, unbothered. “Maybe you can drive me around in it since you like it so much.”

Paige smirked at this, her gaze lingering on Azzi for just a second longer before she unbuckled her seatbelt. “I might just take you up on that.”

Azzi only shook her head before leading the way inside, Paige following closely behind.

As they walked into Azzi’s place, the soft click of the lights flicking on illuminated the interior. Paige took a moment to scan the large space, taking in the unfamiliar setting. She turned to Azzi, offering a smile. “It’s nice,” she said, genuinely impressed.

Azzi gave a small, nod. “Thanks,” she replied, walking toward the kitchen with ease, her movements fluid and comfortable in her space. She began browsing through the wine selection, taking a moment to consider. After a second, she picked one and turned it toward Paige, silently asking for her opinion.

Paige glanced at the label, her gaze briefly lingering on it before nodding. “Yeah, that looks good.”

Azzi then walked over to her cabinet, opening it to pull out two wine glasses. Paige, following closely behind, made her way into the living room with her. The air between them felt lighter now, less charged.

As they settled onto Azzi’s couch, Paige reached for the bottle, pouring wine into both of their glasses. Azzi, meanwhile, grabbed the remote, aimlessly flipping through options.

"So," Azzi started, glancing at Paige, "what are you watching these days?"

Paige let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "If it’s not basketball or some obnoxious toddler show like bluey, I don’t watch TV."

Azzi laughed and nodded in understanding before turning back to the screen. "Well, what do you wanna watch now?"

Paige leaned back into the couch. "Just put on whatever you’ve been watching."

Azzi hesitated before laughing softly. "I don’t really watch anything either."

Paige turned her head to look at her. "So we both just sit around with the TV on for no reason?"

Azzi lifting her wine glass. "Apparently." She took a small sip before adding, "So what now?"

Paige shrugged, stretching her arm over the back of the couch. The motion was casual, but Azzi still took note of how close Paige's hand was behind her. She glanced at it briefly before taking a long sip of her wine.

Azzi decided to bypass the TV altogether, using the Apple TV remote to play some music in the background instead. The soft hum of a familiar R&B track filled the room, settling into the space between them.

Paige took a sip of her wine before glancing at Azzi. "So you wanna tell me about work now?"

Azzi leaned back against the couch, tucking one leg beneath her as she swirled her glass. "It wasn’t bad. A couple of my regular clients are making progress, which is always nice to see. And I’m starting new programs for some of them, tailoring things a little differently this time."

Paige nodded, her attention locked on Azzi in that way that always made Azzi feel seen. "That’s wassup. Tell me about some of em?"

Azzi went on, explaining a bit about her clients—what they needed, what adjustments she was making. It wasn’t anything overly exciting, just the kind of day-to-day she never really thought twice about. But with Paige, it felt different. Maybe it was the way Paige unmistakably listened, fully engaged, or the way she chimed in at just the right moments, adding to the conversation instead of just filling space. Whatever it was, every time it happened it sent warmth spreading through Azzi, settling deep in her chest.

Paige was mid-question, asking Azzi about the mental aspect of recovery, when she noticed the way Azzi was looking at her. Her words trailed off as she caught the intensity in Azzi’s gaze, her brown eyes studying Paige like she was seeing something she hadn’t fully processed before.

Paige tilted her head slightly. "Wassup?"

Azzi swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around her wine glass. "Nothing," she murmured.

Paige raised an eyebrow. "Nah, wassup?"

Azzi shook her head, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at her lips as she looked down for a second before meeting Paige’s eyes again. She exhaled, as if weighing whether to say it out loud.

"It’s just…" Azzi started, her voice quieter than before. "Intelligence. The way you actually listen, not just hear, but really listen—ask the right questions, care about what I do. It’s just…really attractive."

Paige blinked, caught off guard for a second, before a slow, smirk spread across her lips. "Yeah?"

Azzi huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head as she took another sip of her wine. "Yeah."

Paige studied her for a moment before she said, “I think everything you do is attractive.”

Azzi arched a brow. “Yeah?”

Paige hummed in confirmation, shifting just a little in her seat, her arm still stretched over the back of the couch. "The way you talk, the way you move, the way you stare at me like you're doing right now…”

“And here I was thinking you liked me for my mind.”

Paige grinned, tilting her head. “I do. But the rest of you is pretty distracting.”

Azzi bit her lip, pretending to consider this. “So what I’m hearing is I’m the whole package?”

Paige scoffed. “That’s what I been tryna to tell you for like two weeks.”

Azzi exhaled a quiet laugh. The music played on in the background, blending seamlessly into the moment as she let her body lean just slightly toward Paige, closing a bit of the space between them.

Their conversation had flowed effortlessly through the night, carrying them through topics ranging from lighthearted to deep. Now, with the empty wine bottle resting on the table, they had unconsciously shifted closer—Azzi’s legs still tucked beneath her, and Paige sat in a relaxed sprawl, her arm slung over the back of the couch behind Azzi.

Azzi absentmindedly played with the short hairs at the nape of Paige’s neck, and Paige, instead of pulling away, let her.

“I gotta ask,” Azzi said suddenly. “How do you function with your sleep schedule? Or, like…lack of one.”

Paige scoffed. “Whatchu you mean?”

“I mean, I’ll text you at 11 p.m. if I had a late day at the office and you’re awake. Then I’ll wake up at 5 a.m. for my workout, and you’re still awake.”

Paige smiled. “Maybe I just like to be available for you.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at her lips. “Or maybe you’re just terrible at taking care of yourself.”

Paige feigning offense. “Wow. You really know how to flatter a girl.”

Azzi laughed. “I’m just saying. Do you ever sleep?”

“Of course,” Paige said smoothly. “Just…not at normal hours.”

Azzi squinted at her. “So, when exactly?”

Paige shrugged, looking unbothered. “Whenever I crash.”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “You’re a lost cause.”

Paige smirked. “Nah, maybe I just need a little guidance.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “What kind of guidance?”

Paige’s smirk deepened. “The kind that only a private sports physician can give me.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, immediately catching onto what Paige was doing. “Well, I do have a few associates I could refer you to if you’re interested .”

Paige shifted a little closer, her voice lower now. “M’not interested in hearing from them.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered to Paige’s lips before returning to her gaze. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Paige’s fingers lightly traced Azzis shoulder as she leaned in just a little more. “Cause I prefer a more…hands-on approach.”

Azzi let her fingers ghost along the back of Paige’s neck again. “Lucky for you, I specialize in hands-on treatment.”

Paige licked her lips, her gaze locked onto Azzi’s. “Yeah? How’s your patient satisfaction rating?”

Azzi smirked, matching Paige’s energy. “Off the charts.”

Paige’s whispered. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”

Azzi hummed. “You sure you can handle it?”

Paige inched even closer, their noses nearly brushing. “You’d be surprised at what I can handle.”

Azzi’s breath hitched slightly, her fingers pausing for a second before resuming their movements at the back of Paige’s neck. “I don’t know…I wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself.”

Paige let out a soft chuckle. “I think I’ll be just fine.”

Azzi’s voice was barely above a whisper now, her lips dangerously close to Paige’s. “Mmm. Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Paige swallowed, her voice barely audible as she whispered, “I’m tryna kiss you. That’s ok with you?”

Azzi instinctively licked her lips before whispering, “Go ahead.”

In the next second, Paige closed the distance, her lips pressing softly against Azzi’s. The kiss started slow. There was no rush, no urgency. Just the two of them, exploring the unfamiliar territory between them.

Azzi’s hand slid up to cup Paige’s jaw, her thumb brushing over her cheek as she leaned in further. Paige’s fingers ghosted over Azzi’s waist before settling there, pulling her just a little closer.

Paige’s grip on Azzi’s waist tightened just slightly as she pressed in, deepening the kiss. Azzi sighed softly against her lips, her fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Paige’s neck, anchoring her there.

The shift in intensity was gradual, a natural progression from gentle exploration to something more certain. Paige’s hand moved up, fingertips tracing the curve of Azzi’s spine before settling between her shoulder blades. Azzi melted into her touch, her own body instinctively responding as she leaned further into Paige, matching her pace.

The music playing in the background faded into nothing, their focus locked solely on each other. Paige tilted her head, deepening the kiss, savoring the warmth of Azzi’s lips. Azzi responded in kind, her breathing slightly heavier now.

Paige tried to tug Azzi toward her and barely had time to register the shift before she was being pulled down by Azzi, their lips never breaking apart. A quiet hum of surprise left her, quickly swallowed by Azzi as she tightened her arms around Paige’s shoulders, keeping her close.

With this new position, Paige braced herself with one hand against the couch while the other settled against Azzi’s waist again, her thumb brushing against the bare skin exposed between her shirt and pants. The kiss deepened naturally again, the slow exploration giving way to something more urgent.

Azzi sighed into Paige’s mouth, fingers threading deeper into her hair, nails scratching lightly against her scalp. The small sound sent a rush through Paige, her body instinctively pressing further into Azzi’s, closing any remaining space between them. The warmth of Azzi beneath her, the way she moved with her—it was intoxicating.

Neither of them realized how much time passed, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of each other. Their lips moved in sync, tongues, exploring—learning. Paige felt like she could kiss Azzi forever, and from the way Azzi kept pulling her closer, she figured the feeling was mutual.

Eventually, Paige’s lips began to wander, trailing soft, wet kisses down Azzi’s jaw and onto her neck. She felt the way Azzi’s breath hitched, how her fingers tightened their grip in Paige’s hair. Encouraged, Paige continued, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the warm skin, reveling in the little sighs Azzi let slip. She her lips and tongue map out every inch of Azzi’s neck, trailing lower to the parts of her chest that were exposed. She felt the way Azzi shivered beneath her, the way her breathing grew uneven with every kiss. Paige smirked against her skin, pressing one more lingering kiss just above her collarbone before her fingers toyed with the hem of Azzi’s shirt.

She tugged at it gently, a silent question passing between them. But instead of lifting her arms, Azzi grabbed Paige’s jaw and pulled her back up, reconnecting their lips. Paige got the message. She didn’t question it . Instead, she melted right back into the kiss, letting Azzi set the pace.

Azzi pulled back just slightly, her breath warm against Paige’s lips as she whispered, “Is just this okay with you?”

Paige gazed down at her, eyes soft. She smiled, brushing her thumb gently over Azzi’s cheek. “Of course,” she whispered, her voice filled with reassurance.

Azzi nodded before she guided Paige back down, their lips finding each other again, sinking back into the moment.

Once again, they stayed with their lips lost in one another, time slipping away as if it didn’t exist. Their breathing was heavy, blending into the soft music playing in the background, neither of them in a rush to pull away.

Eventually after who knows how long, Paige let out a light laugh against Azzi’s lips before resting her forehead against Azzi’s chest.

Azzi, still catching her own breath, looked down at her. “What?” she asked, amusement flickering in her tone.

Paige shook her head, her voice slightly muffled as she spoke. “I gotta stop or Imma die.”

Azzi let out a full laugh this time, her fingers absentmindedly playing with a few strands of Paige’s hair. “You’re dramatic.”

Paige finally lifted her head, her eyes still dark with lingering desire but now tinged with something softer. “M’for real,” she murmured.

Azzi rolled her eyes, still grinning. “Whatever you say.”

Paige let out a low chuckle, reaching up to gently push a stray strand of hair out of Azzi’s face. Her fingers lingered for a moment, tucking it behind Azzi’s ear before she murmured, “You’re gorgeous you know what?”

Azzi immediately looked away, mumbling, “Stop.”

Paige’s smile grew. “Why?”

Azzi exhaled, shaking her head before admitting, “Because every time you open your mouth, it gets harder to keep on my pants.”

Paige smirked, her fingers lightly tracing Azzi’s arm. “I tend to have that effect.”

Azzi let out a laugh, rolling her eyes as she playfully shoved Paige off of her. Paige let herself fall back against the couch with an exaggerated grunt, grinning up at Azzi as she stood.

“You’re ridiculous,” Azzi said, running a hand through her hair as she tried to shake off the heat Paige had stirred in her.

Paige propped herself up on her elbows, smirk still intact. “Ridiculously charming, ridiculously good-looking…list goes on.”

“Ridiculously cocky.”

Paige winked. “You like it.”

Azzi shook her head but couldn’t fight the smile on her lips. “I need a second,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Paige sat up fully, watching her go with amusement. “Need to cool off, huh?”

Azzi shot her a look over her shoulder. “No thanks to you.”

Paige bit her lip, laughing. “I meann, I could help with that if you let me.”

Azzi pointed at her. “Sit there. Be quiet. Don’t move.”

Paige held her hands up in surrender but still grinned. Two seconds later even though Azzi told her to stay still Paige gets up and follows Azzi into her kitchen

Azzi handed Paige a cup of water, watching as she took a sip before leaning against the counter. “I thought I told you not to move,” Azzi said, crossing her arms.

Paige shrugged, setting the cup down. “I’ve never been someone who listens.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.”

Paige smirked. “Besides, if I stayed put, I wouldn’t be able to keep bothering you.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, so that’s the goal?”

Paige tilted her head side to side. “Eh one of em.”

Azzi filled a cup of water for herself and took a sip, watching as Paige’s smirk lingered. “You’re way too happy with yourself.”

Paige leaned in slightly. “Can you blame me?”

Azzi scoffed. “I really should.”

They stood there for a moment, the playful energy between them settling into something softer. Paige glanced at the time on the microwave and sighed. “I should probably get home.”

Azzi pressed her lips together, nodding. “Yeah…probably.”

But neither of them moved, both hesitating trying to stretch the night just a little longer.

Paige smirked as she tugged Azzi closer, their bodies pressing together as she leaned back against the counter and pulled her into a kiss. The kiss was slower this time, unrushed but still filled with the energy that had been building between them all night. Paige’s hands slid up the sides of Azzi’s shirt, her fingertips grazing the skin before she tilted her head and bit down lightly on Azzi’s bottom lip.

Azzi moaned softly at this, a sudden rush of heat pooling low in her stomach. But just as quickly as the feeling overwhelmed her, she snapped herself out of it, pulling back abruptly.

“Nope,” Azzi said, shaking her head as she stepped away. “Get out.”

Paige blinked, still leaning against the counter, her lips slightly parted. “What?”

Azzi pointed toward the door. “Out. Now.”

A slow grin spread across Paige’s face as she straightened up. “Did I just—”

“Out.” Azzi repeated, her voice firm, but the way she avoided Paige’s gaze only made her more amused.

Paige chuckled, grabbing her keys off the counter. “Alright, alright. I’m going.” She started toward the garage door but paused, glancing over her shoulder. “For the record, I still think you could show me around. You know lemme see your room and allat.”

Azzi scoffed, arms crossed as she leaned against the kitchen island. “I’m good.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “You gonna at least come say bye?”

Azzi exhaled, resisting the urge to roll her eyes into the back of her head. Still, she pushed off the counter and walked over, allowing herself to be pulled into a hug. Paige’s arms wrapped around her tightly, lingering just enough to make Azzi’s feel warm before she pulled back slightly.

“Text me when you make it home,” Azzi murmured.

“I will,” Paige promised.

They shared a quiet look before murmuring soft goodnights. Paige finally stepped out, heading to her car as Azzi trailed behind, opening the garage for her. As Paige backed out she shot Azzi a wink before driving off.

Azzi shook her head, fighting a smile as she pressed the button to shut the garage.

She let out a slow breath as she closed the door, leaning against it for a moment before pushing off and making her way back into the kitchen. She braced her hands against the counter, her thoughts still swirling—Paige’s touch, her teasing smirk, the way her lips felt, the heat still lingering in Azzi’s stomach. Most of all how Paige made her feel. Like her presence was something Azzi had been missing her entire life.

With a sigh, she ran a hand down her face, shaking the thoughts away as best she could. She reached up, gathering her hair into a messy bun before turning off the music and lights. The house felt quieter now, too still compared to the energy Paige had left behind.

Exhaling, Azzi made her way upstairs, ready to put some space between herself and the thoughts Paige had stirred up—though she already knew they’d follow her to bed.

[ghostofmarvel]

Decompressing

Bob Reynolds x Gender Neutral!Reader

Author’s note: I’m just thinking about the Thunderbolts* and Bob… Specifically Bob’s eyes… so um here’s this, enjoy. Minors do not interact, thank you.

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x gender neutral! reader

Synopsis: You teach Bob how to decompress :)

Content ahead: smut, sub!Bob, Bob likes being called a good boy, gentle dom!reader, mutual masturbation, oral sex, fingering, 69ing, reader has ambiguous genitalia, Sentry makes a slight appearance oops, switch!bob?, essence of switch!bob, usage of the term “sweetheart” for Bob (because he’s a sweetheart), basically p w/o plot, Bob wants to be good for you

Word count: 2,075

Bob being part of the team is truly the key in having the team remain a team. He’s the glue holding the whole team together because no matter how much everyone seems to bicker and fight one another after every mission, everyone loves Bob and Bob loves everyone. He’s essentially everyone’s decompression guy, which you are endlessly grateful for, but it leaves you to question what is Bob doing to decompress?

This brings you to your current situation where you’re sitting next to Bob in the center of his bed, backs against his headboard as you both lay with legs spread and hands underneath your pajama bottoms and underwear. Bob is leaning his head against your shoulder with your head resting on top of his as you watch his hand move slowly under his pants. He whines as his eyes squeeze shut in reaction to the sensation, “I-I-I don’t understand how this is supposed to help me calm down.”

You let out a soft moan as your hands slips out from your pants to reach around his shoulder, holding his head against you as you turn to kiss his head, body turning slightly to cross your leg over his as your other hand trails down his torso nearing the gap between his flesh and his tented clothing making room for his moving hand. His breathe hitches as your hand plays along the hem of his bottoms, fingers slightly dipping in between the gap of clothing and skin. You sigh as your fingers trail from playing with the coarse hair down his lower stomach to his pubic bone, “You will be calm after this, you’re decompressing, sweetheart.”

Bob moans at the sensation and the name you call him, body turning towards you as his hips rock towards you, lips absently kissing in the space between your neck and shoulder, “P-please, touch me,” he whispers breathlessly between kisses. His hand slips out from his pants as they move from squeezing your thigh to your chest.

You coo at him, “Bobby, sweetheart, the goal of this is so you know how to decompress by yourself.” Even with your words, your hands are moving to trace his cock through his flannel pajama pants.

Bob whines in response, “But why would I do that when I have you?”

You smile at his words, ruffling his hair as he begins to lazily suck on your neck, “You’re right. C’mon, help me take these off,” you gesture by tugging down on his pants, “I got a better idea on how we can both decompress.”

Bob excitedly nods and rushes to pull off his pants and boxer briefs, staring at you as you stand up to pull off your shirt and bottoms, “God you are so hot,” he compliments with both his words and a twitch of his cock.

You let out a soft laugh as you pull your underwear down, watching the precum leak out from his cock, “C’mon, pretty boy, why don’t you lay down for me huh?” You get back on the bed on your knees as Bob practically jumps down the bed to lay flat, his hard cock hitting his lower stomach where it lays heavy, begging to be touched.

You smile as you lean over Bob, giving him a sweet kiss as you give his cock a few tugs. He moans into the kiss, bucking his hips upwards for more contact. You quickly pull your hand away, prompting a cry from him before quickly quieting at you positioning yourself on top of him, your legs on either side of his head with your ass facing him.

Before he has any chance to question, you say to him “Breathe,” before leaning to sit back on his face. He moans as his hands go to grasp your ass, mouth kissing hungrily between your legs. You moan as you lean your chest forward, prompting you to lay on top of Bob with your face directly next to his cock. Completing this motion lifts you off his face somewhat, something he finds completely unacceptable as he readily cranes his neck up, wrapping his arms around your lower back, palm splayed flat across it applying slight pressure to hold you in place as he digs his face right back in between your legs. You moan as your hand reaches to stroke his cock, moving your head like a snake trying to get his cock in your mouth from this position with his movements shaking you slightly. With such a close, intimate position you’re both in, you immediately take in at least 3 inches of his cock in your mouth as you rest comfortably on top of him. You both moan at the feeling of his cock in your mouth, your tongue and moan wrapping around his cock making him roll his eyes back as he breaks away from you with a series of whimpering moans, “F-fuck you’re good, ah!”

You pull his cock out of your mouth, a coating of saliva covering his cock as he whines at the absence of your warm mouth. You’re quick to replace your mouth with the controlled movements of your hands over his now lubricated cock. His whine shifts to a broken moan in a brief second, effectively melting his brain slightly as he only focuses on pleasure and how good that pleasure feels.

“Where’s your mouth, sweetheart?” You ask, giving his cock a quick, open mouth kiss as you slowly stroke his cock, intentionally edging him.

Bob shutters at your contact, “I can’t focus my mouth on making you feel good when you’re making me feel SO so good,” he apologetically announces with a thrust of his hips upwards to meet your hands wrapped around him.

You give an apologetic kiss to his cock as your hand moves to firmly grasp his cock by the base, making it stand tall as you cupped his balls, causing a strangled noise he tried not to release to come out. “Well, you got hands don’t you?” you mockingly ask with a squeeze of your hands.

He shakes his head yes, even if you can’t see it in the position you’re in, and rushes his hands to rub up the backs of your thighs to your ass, paying special care to the bouncy flesh. He’s quick to suck two of his fingers intensely, making sure he coats them in his own saliva before circling his fingers around your hole. He draws out a “good boy” from you as he sinks a finger in you, moving steady and slow.

You moan as you take his length back in your mouth, hand stroking his cock, working in unison as you bob your head up and down. Bob views your praise and your mouth as rewards, so he continues the movement of his finger as he places kisses on your cheeks.

He tries. He really tries to focus his mouth on you, but he can’t help all the noises escaping from him as you relentlessly work your mouth and hands on his cock. The warm, wetness of mouth with the pressure of it all drives Bob to be full of energy, his eyes flickering between normal to his sentry yellow eyes. His arm flees to wrap around your lower back as he struggles to break focus from your divine mouth. He then replays in his head you calling him “good boy” and he regains focus on his submission and how he needs to focus on pleasing you.

Bob slides his second finger into you, causing your hand to grasp a bit harder on his cock, your other hand flying to squeeze his thigh as you choke out broken words on his cock. Bob can’t help but to thrust his hips up ever so slightly and ever so slowly into your heavenly mouth as he fucks his fingers in and out of you slowly, letting out a drawn out exasperated moan. You can tell he’s starting to reach a true mindless, submissive state as you’re not even sure he’s fully aware he’s thrusting his own hips up into your mouth, his cock going deeper and deeper in your throat. You slowly snap your hips up and down to meet his thrusting fingers, encouraging him to pick up the pace. You egg on his movement by increasing your own movement of your hands.

Bob eagerly picks up on your increased pace, rhythmically speeding up the pace of his thrusting fingers into your warm opening as his hips lift off the bed, trying to have his pubic bone meet with your chin. He moans out your name with chants of “please” and a broken cry of “god I’m so close.” You moan with your lips around his cock as you shake your head yes while squeezing his thighs, signaling your encouragement for him to take control of his orgasm.

Your submissive sweetheart fully thrusts up into your mouth as endless moans pour out of his, his eyes struggling to stay open and to remain one color. He’s approaching his climax when his eyes open widely to the pending sensation, his view full of his wet fingers thrusting in and out of you with your ass centimeters away from smothering his face. With that view, Bob cums with a trembling final thrust into your mouth, shakiness overtaking his body.

You lick his cock as your mouth remains tightly wrapped around him, causing Bob to release a squeak of a moan as his cock twitches in the aftermath of his powerful orgasm. After his cock seemingly begins to calm down, you slowly pull your mouth off his cock, swallowing the treat he gave you. You slowly pull yourself off of Bob as his breathless moans turn into pants, a sign of him calming down. You flip yourself over to rest your head on his chest, your arm and leg reaching over his body as you lay next to him. Bob sighs happily as his arms instantly wrap around you, finally decompressing. You kiss his chest as you hum, “You did such a good job, my love.”

He’s content as his breathing begins to become more regular as he reflects on the experience you two just shared. Hot, steamy, and needy memories cross his mind as his cock gives a phantom twitch to the recent memory of your lovingly warm mouth. He’s thinking fondly before he grabs you with urgency as you shoot to look up at him. Your face begs question out of his action as he exclaims, “Wait, you didn’t get to decompress with me.”

You half sit up from your original position on top of him, propping your head up with your arm as you look at your lover with confusion, “I did compress? Silly, you touched me and I got to be with you.”

Bob is quick to correct as he sits up, “But you didn’t cum.”

Your mind silently goes ohhh as you suddenly click together what he meant by decompression. You click your lips before soothing Bob, “Oh sweetheart, that’s okay, there’s always later.” You try to wrap your arm around his lower torso to get him back to laying down, but he resists, a sudden immovability felt as you result in laying face flat against the bed with a small laugh after failing to get him to crash into bed with you. You look up at him, expecting to see him smiling, but instead you see him with his altered yellow eye color.

He turns to you with an inquisitive look on his face, “Why don’t you show me how you decompress? Please?”

You sit yourself up as you look into his eyes, “You sure you don’t want to get some rest, sweetheart? It’s late,” you push some strands out of his face behind his ears.

His eye blink close and when he opened them his eyes were back to his normal blue hue, his face turning to follow your hand that brushed past his face, his head nodding, “Yes, I want to learn what makes you feel good. I just want to be good for you, please.”

You cup his cheek in your hand, and he turns his head to give your palm a quick kiss before turning his cheek back into your grasp, melting into your touch. You sigh lovingly as your thumb taps his mouth, “Okay, pretty boy, open up that mouth for me will you?”

Author’s endnote: uhhh, anyways that’s kinda crazy right lol. i haven’t written a fic, let alone smut, in SO long this feels crazy that i did this. i was BLUSHING while writing/editing this TvT

anyways please let me know what you thought! feel free to request or drop a message! :)

[illbegottenfaith]

bad day - theo nott x reader

a visit from your boyfriend perks you up even on the most frustrating of days

a/n - my first theo nott fic! I’ve written for other fandom(s) so this was a nice change, hope you enjoy :

tropes/warnings - established relationship, a pet name here or there, nothing overwhelming, fluff, comfort, nothing 18+ but a brief alluding to it

word count - 1k

“Off.”

As a general rule of thumb, you were typically the clingier half of your relationship with Theo. There was something about the feel of his skin against yours and the way his touch grounded you that made you feel safe and cared for in ways you were still too embarrassed to express out loud. Theo was always happy to indulge, casually draping an arm across your shoulders and rubbing soothing circles on your shoulder.

However, like all rules, it came with its exception - particularly, when you were studying. You needed to focus on your work, and that wasn’t exactly possible with the delicious warmth of Theo pressed against your back or hip. For the most part, he stayed well away when you needed him to, but something about the adrenaline of Quidditch practice made him extra excitable. Which was how you found yourself pouring over a hellish Charms essay in the Slytherin common room late one night, when you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your middle and a familiar weight rest in the crook of your neck.

“Theo, I mean it,” you whined as he slid into the seat next to yours, refusing to relinquish his hold on you, effortlessly dragging you onto his lap. Your irritation evaporated at the sight of his boyish blue eyes and his sloping smile. It was a problem, really, how you could never stay mad at him. Merlin knows his ego is bad enough as it is.

“Hey, doll.” His nose nudged yours and you finally relented, wrapping an arm around his neck as he kissed you. His face felt cool against your warm forehead, and he smelt pleasantly of some non-descript yet refreshing soap. 

“My neck is killing me,” you mumbled against his lips as you broke apart. Theo leaned back to get a better look at your wan face, distractedly running a hand down your spine.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“Yes,” you frowned, “with you. Remember?”

Theo stared at you blankly. “Y/N. I’ve been at Quidditch practice for the past four hours.”

“What are you talking about? We had dinner, then we came up to the common room, and it was, y’know, freezing, and I said I needed to buy more fleece-lined tights, and you started saying something about liking me best without any tights, but then those fifth-years started wrestling each other over that game of -“

“- Gobstones?”

“Exactly!”

“Babe, that was last Thursday.”

Your face fell. “…it was. Merlin.” Theo watched, amused, as you let out a string of curses under your breath as you flipped through your planner, scowling. “It’s this stupid Charms essay that’s doing me in. I haven’t had my head on straight all week. Remember when I wore my earmuffs to breakfast on Tuesday?”

“Mhm.”

“Made a proper arse of myself at 8 in the morning. And I genuinely thought I saw you just an hour ago. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“I didn’t know I was so forgettable of a boyfriend,” Theo teased, as you buried your face into your hands. 

“Stop. I feel awful enough already,” came your muffled voice. Laughing, he took your hands in his own, his features softening at the exhausted look on your face.

“Rough day, baby?” You groaned, burying your face into his chest as he wrapped his other arm around you. Before meeting Theo, you took pride in how fiercely independent you were. Even now, you were more than capable of handling your daily stresses just as well as the next guy, but you still had the tendency of being tightly wound more often than not, and sometimes it just felt nice to have someone hold you while you cried about how awful life was. No one could help you or get you to decompress the way Theo did.

“Rough week, more like,” you mumbled into his collarbone. He hummed sympathetically, hand still running up and down your spine.

“You didn’t say a word.”

“It could have been worse. I thought I’d just…you know. Deal.”

You could hear the amused lilt to his voice. “Deal?”

“Deal with it. On my own, I mean.”

His hold on you tightened a fraction. “Have dinner with me.”

“Didn’t you eat before practice?”

“Hm. Have supper with me.”

“Theo.”

“What?”

You sighed. You were never one to turn in an assignment late but, Merlin - he didn’t make things easy for you. 

“I really need to get this essay done.”

“So you’ll get it done. After supper. I could take a look at it for you. Or your neck. Or both.”

You snorted. “Yeah, sure, because a distraction is just what I need now. You don’t even take N.E.W.T level Charms.”

“So you find me distracting?”

You pressed your lips together, biting the inside of your cheek. “Let me put it this way. If I, um, ‘have supper’ with you now, this essay will not reach Flitwick’s desk by 10 am tomorrow.”

Theo didn't look too happy about anything you were saying. “So what do you want me to do?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Like any other guy, Theo could only sympathise for so long before he was bursting with advice or solutions. You glanced at the clock, getting the distinct impression that he was valiantly trying to stifle a yawn. 

“Go, leave, shoo. Get some rest, read a book, start a fight with some fifth-years, I don’t know. I just need to bully myself into finishing this. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But I don’t want to start a fight with some sticky-fingered Gobstones-playing fifth-years.”

Still, he reluctantly slid you off his lap, pressing a kiss to your forehead before briefly disappearing. He returned with a huge, ancient book whose weathered cover seemed somewhat related to Potions. He arched an eyebrow as you made a face at it.

“What’s that?”

“What’s that?” You shot back, looking greatly repulsed by the gnarly volume.

“Some light bedtime reading material,” he quipped. You watched his face nervously, the tell-tale signs of fatigue knitted into the creases of his achingly beautiful face.

“I mean it, Teddy. You really should go to bed.”

“Can’t. I’ve got a date in an hour.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I’m taking this really pretty girl out for supper.”

You rolled your eyes as Theo settled into his seat, cracking the disfigured tome open.

“Smooth-talker.”

[sometimesanalice]

Save Your Midnights for Me

Summary: This year has thrown you through a loop. You lost your job, you moved to San Diego, and you reunited with your summer crush from all those years ago who still is just as handsome as ever. As the clock ticks down, you can’t help but wonder what the new year might have in store for you.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 9k

Warnings: fluff and two pining idiots in love

(Author’s note: this one is for the hopeful romantics! Happy New Year, friends!)

You’ve always loved New Year’s Eve. The excitement, the fun, the champagne, the confetti. Everyone riding the high of the hope and potential of the new year ahead.

But tonight, you were on the clock instead of watching as it inched closer and closer to midnight with every tick of the second hand.

The evening has been a whirlwind of cheerful faces as you pour pint after pint of frothy, cold beers. Your arms were definitely feeling the burn of all the margaritas and whiskey sours you’ve been serving up. You were putting all your well-earned practice from the last four months of working at the Hard Deck into good use for the steady stream of Naval patrons who had come to gather and celebrate.

But you liked the steady flow. It kept you focused; it kept you busy. With your head down and your thoughts occupied with tasks and orders and drink recipes and tabs, it spared you from having to see Bradley with the girl in the silver dress who was making it more than clear whose midnight kiss she was after.

Bradley Bradshaw had been the star in all your daydreams growing up. You just never could have anticipated that you still wouldn’t be able to kick that summer crush on him, even all these years later.

This year… hadn’t been the greatest.

The meeting you’d thought was going to be the start of a new chapter in your career with that promotion you’d been hoping and working so hard for had ended with you clearing out your desk and turning in your ID badge, but not even the decent severance package they sent you out the door with could have cushioned that blow.

You’d been laid off from your tech job just in time for your industry to be hit with hiring freezes so glacial it felt like there must have been a breakthrough in global warming, as if the ice caps weren’t melting.

You spent days then weeks then months applying and interviewing on repeat like a groundhog’s day from hell, only to encounter more closed doors than open ones. Had enough ever-so-casual networking coffee chats that you were pretty sure you’d need to switch to decaf if you still wanted to have some functioning adrenal glands by the time you were fifty.

Coming close- so, so close- so many times. Having the final decision come between you and another candidate only for your fingertips to slip off the edge at the very last moment.

Still freefalling the same way you’d been since you’d first been let go.

With your savings dwindling and spirits low, you’d decided that what you needed most was to decompress and reassess. And where better than the place where some of your favorite memories had been made.

All it had taken was one call to your Aunt Penny for the little strands of silver lining to peek out from behind the gray clouds that had filled your skies lately.

By the end of the conversation not only did you have a place to land- the furnished loft above the garage with an ocean view from the tiny kitchen- but also a just-for-now job too, getting to work with her at the bar. Something to help get you back on your feet while the dust of your imploded life settled around you as you figured out your next move.

You weren’t known for staying in any place too long as it was, so it had been easy to pack up and leave the city you’d been living in for the Southern California sun, feeling lighter than you had in ages.

Your mom’s longtime best friend was quite possibly one of your favorite people on Earth. And still is.

There was nothing you looked forward to more than those summers you got to spend in San Diego, when you got to trade your textbooks for days out on the boat. Your family would rent at home near the Benjamin beach house and for almost two months it was carefree days of endless blue water and sand between your toes.

But without a doubt, the highlight of your summer was always Bradley Bradshaw.

A few years older than you, he’d been the cute boy who was the object of all your daydreams. You couldn’t remember who you first celebrity crush was, but you definitely remembered the boy with the curly brown hair who was responsible for giving you butterflies in your stomach for the very first time.

While your brother was more than fine trying to ditch you at every turn, Bradley had always made you feel like you were right where you were supposed to be. He always made you feel included. He had been the one to teach you how to wakeboard, gave you his free dole whip when he made a hole-in-one at Tiki Town, and sat next to you the first time you ever rode the Giant Dipper Roller Coaster.

Even though Penny and Mav’s relationship had been on and off for years, Bradley had remained a steady presence in your life every July and August.

Until the one summer when he didn’t show up.

You’d sat on the stairs with your arms wrapped around your knees that first night and listened on as your mom and Penny talked, piecing together the explanation for Bradley’s absence and why your aunt was dating the uninteresting man you’d met earlier that night at dinner.

The sun, the sand, and the sights were all the same. And yet everything had changed after that.

That had been your last San Diego summer.

You moved on, you went to college, you grew up. But you had never forgotten the boy who had made you feel like sunshine.

You’d always hoped he remembered you just as fondly.

When you heard that Penny and Mav were back together, you thought there might be a chance to see him again, you were always curious about how things had turned out for you. You just never expected for him to quite literally crash back into your life.

Or for all of those sun-warmed feelings came rushing back.

It was your third day of working at the Hard Deck.

You were still getting use to the lay of the land- and announcing corner whenever you made your way out of the stockroom- when you’d come out of the back with your arms full of refill napkins packs only to collide with a wall of muscles with a less than dignified oof.

“Oh, shit!” The hand that reached out to grasp your hip was probably the only reason you hadn’t landed on your ass, even as the napkins went everywhere. “Sorry, that was my- wait, Bee?”

The nickname from your younger years was exclusively reserved for close family and friends. Shortened over time from busy bee, a name your mom still wrote in your birthday and Christmas cards, because of the way you were always pursuing new activities with the kind of intense tenacity only found in the most precocious of kids.

Although, no one who’d known you squarely post-braces had ever called you that before. And definitely not anyone so solidly built with such a masculine, raspy voice.

But you knew those rich brown eyes and sun-streaked curls.

Just like you knew that under the soft looking linen blend shirt there’d be freckles dotted along his shoulder. Just like you knew that he was left-handed but preferred to throw a baseball with his right. Just like you knew he rode the Beach Blaster four times in a row that one time, not because he liked it, but because he was trying to get over his fear of heights.

“Bradley?” The right side of his mouth pulled up in a smile, seemingly pleased you recognized him. “Bradley Bradshaw?” you repeat, because even though he was standing less than three feet away from you, your brain was having a hard time processing the boy you’d known was now the man in front of you.

You hadn’t seen him since you were fifteen.

Although, you did try to look him up once in college when you and your roommates were tipsy off cheap sparkling wine and talking about first crushes. Giggling over poor choices and high-fiving over the ones who still Had It. Only when it was your turn, you’d found out pretty quick that he wasn’t on any socials- at least none that the four of you could sleuth out drunk on sheer determination and peach Andre. They’d let you have the rest of the bottle as a consolation prize when you’d all come up emptyhanded.

Bradley Bradshaw had remained a mystery to you, until that moment.

Gone was any trace of baby fat from his familiar face, replaced with a defined jaw and crinkles around the corners of his eyes. There were scars on his cheek and neck that hadn’t been there before, but the smile underneath that mustache was the same one from those summers all those years ago.

“It’s been a long time, huh?” Bradley said.

The only difference was the cute boy you’d known growing up was now quite possibly the most handsome man you’d ever seen.

“How’d you get even hotter?” you blurted. It only took a split second for your brain to catch up with your mouth, wincing at the words that hung in the air unable to take them back.

Bradley’s eyes widened in surprise just for a moment before he laughed. Loud and unguarded and amused.

Mortified and flustered you drop down to your knees to pick up the scattered brown craft paper wrapped bundles of napkins that littered the narrow hallway. His presence- and bulk- filling up the already small space.

He kneeled down next to you, helping to collect the packs. “I don’t know about ‘hotter’, but probably taller since that last time I saw you.” You couldn’t help but notice how big his hands were as he reached for the furthest one that was sent flying as victim of your two-person Big Bang.

And broader, you think.

“We’ve been doing a lot of push-ups lately,” Bradley chuckled, “I keep telling the squad to stop underestimating the old man, but they never learn. They’re still just as competitive as ever.”

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath, needing a rock to crawl under. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt that ruffled around a man before. So caught off guard that all semblance of casually cool had left the building. You looked at him from the corner of your eye, and attempted to diffuse the situation with some self-deprecating humor, “Well, I wish second puberty had been as kind to me as it was for you.”

“From what I can see, it looks like it was pretty damn kind to you too.”

You’d pressed your lips together and fought back grin as you shook your head, reaching for another bundle. The last thing you’d needed was for him to be charming too.

You felt his gaze on the side of your face, like he was trying to catch your eye, and when you couldn’t avoid it any further without making it weird you met those warmer than cinnamon brown eyes.

“It’s good to see you again.” There was an earnest smile still in place on his face as he passed you the napkins he’d collected from his side of the hall.

He looked at you- probably the same way you’d been looking at him only a couple moments ago- trying to reconcile the carefree girl with the stunned woman in front of him, seeing what changes could be picked out on a face that hadn’t been seen in over a decade. You didn’t dare call it interest that was flickering in his eyes, but you could safely say there was at least some curiosity reflected in them.

You knew he wasn’t flirting, just trying to make you feel better less awkward about your earlier slip. Playing along the same way he did when he’d sabotage your brother at the water gun war game at Belmont Park so that you could stand a chance at winning a stuffed animal prize.

“It’s good to see you again, too,” you replied, meaning it as you gave him a smile of your own for the first time and watching as his own grew a little wider.

“Bee? Did you find them? The napkins should be-” Penny came rounding the corner, taking in the scene in front of her and who you’d been delayed by. Your whole body jolted like she’d caught you playing 7 Minutes in Heaven instead of crouching on the floor. “Oh, I see you’ve found Rooster. And the napkins.”

“It was my bad, Penny, I plowed right into her,” Bradley- Rooster?- said standing back up, wrapping a hand under your elbow to help guide you up to your feet.

“Sorry, I’ll be right there,” you told her, gesturing with your napkin filled arms. He was quick to reach out and catch one of the slipping packs from the top of the pile before it could fall to the ground again, helping you to get them better situated and less like a Jenga stack waiting to collapse.

“There’s no rush. I just wanted to make sure you were finding everything alright.” Her eyes drifted back and forth between the two of you, before landing on him and flicking down to the hand still on your elbow. “Hey, since you’re here, would you mind grabbing a fresh keg of the Stone Brewing lager for me?”

He nodded, letting go of you and hooking his thumbs into his front pockets. “Sure thing, can do.”

“Thank you, Bradley. And Bee,” she continued, turning back to you, “You can just bring those up when you’re ready.” You didn’t know what to make of the smile she gave you before she’d set off back to the bar.

The two of you stood there in silence for a few moments, although it hadn’t been the uncomfortable kind.

Bradley cleared his throat, his mouth quirking to one side. “I feel like there’s some kind of ‘the birds and the bees’ joke here. One I’m not qualified to make since you were always the funnier one of the two of us.”

That time it was your turn to laugh. You were more than a little pleased when his deeper one mixed with yours.

You warred with yourself- still holding those damn napkins- whether or not to wrap things up and go take them to Penny, but you wanted to know more.

“Rooster?” you’d asked, tilting your head at him in question.

“Believe it or not, I finally got past that fear of heights,” he explained, “I’m a pilot now.” You felt your smile grow on its own, it was something he’d always talked about. You were happy to learn he’d made it happen for himself. “Rooster is my callsign.”

It was a name you’d heard a few times since moving into the loft above the garage. The way Penny said it always made it seem like you should know who she was talking about, you just hadn’t taken a moment to ask, figuring that you’d meet this mysterious ‘Rooster’ eventually. You just never would have guessed you already knew him.

You told him as much, adding on, “Maybe she thought we’d kept in touch.”

“I would have liked that.” You ignored the fluttering low in your stomach. There was something in his voice that made your mouth go a little dry. “What’re you doing later? Are you here for long? I’d like to catch up, if you have time for an old friend.”

Friend.

The word shook you out of whatever Bradley Bradshaw induced haze you’d found yourself in.

You didn’t know how long you were going to be here, but one thing was for sure, all the two of you were ever going to be was platonic. It was a necessary reminder before any coconut sunscreen scented daydreams tempted you off course.

A smile stayed plastered to your face, one that felt more forced than it had been a few heartbeats ago, “I’m behind the bar until midnight, but I’ll be your friendly neighborhood bartender for the foreseeable future.”

Bradley grinned. “Guess, I’ll be seeing you around then, Bee.”

“I guess you will, Rooster.”

And you did.

You went from not seeing Bradley Bradshaw for over a decade to seeing him multiple times a week.

He kept you company at the bartop, swiveling on his stool, on slow nights as you found little projects to keep yourself occupied, like polishing and reorganizing the Hard Deck’s glassware collection. Filling each other in on the important things and people that had helped shaped the two of you into the adults that you’d grown into.

Rooster introduced you to his friends and teammates, making you feel not only included but liked you belonged in that same way he had when you were kids. Seamlessly bringing up common interests you shared with the people closest to him, giving you something to connect with them on your own outside of him. Always taking the initiative to extend invites your way to hang out at the beach or to check out the best spot for breakfast or to experience a Padres game complete with an unofficial culinary food tour of Petco Park.

He helped you paint the kitchenette in the loft a soft blue- with your aunt’s permission, of course. Meticulously taping off the countertop edges and cabinets, yet somehow ending up wearing more paint on an old, tightfitting UVA shirt that had seen better days than he got on the wall.  

And on Sunday nights he was seated across from you at the oak dining table with Amelia, Penny, and Pete for the weekly dinner the five of you all had together. They’d been back together for over a year now, and it seemed like it was for good this time based on the way they looked at each other. Your aunt was noticeably happier than she’d been even just a few years ago, that spark back that had been dimmed from an unhappy marriage.

You were happy for her and Mav.

He’d even taken you for a spin on his motorcycle. It was a one and done event, reaffirming what you already knew, that you were more of a four-wheel girl than a two-wheel one.

When you weren’t at the bar or working on the few remote side gigs you’d taken on to keep your skills feeling fresh, you were helping Amelia learn to code. It wasn’t your forte, but you were having fun spending time with her and teaching her what you did know. And in return, she’d help you to revamp your wardrobe a bit. You thought California cool looked good on you.

There had been a brief moment when you’d been packing up your old apartment when you’d worried about being lonely in San Diego not knowing anyone outside of your family, but you were the furthest thing from lonely and you had Bradley to thank for that.

It was nice to have friend.

However, you were finding that crush on him harder to get over than you anticipated.

You still get annoyed at yourself when he smiles at you a certain way making your cheeks heat up and your stomach flip. Although, you try not to be too hard on yourself because he’s genuinely kind and good looking and you’re only human. God knows you’ve seen enough people notice him too from your perch behind the bar.

But there were worse problems to have.

You had spent that morning getting the Hard Deck decorated for the big New Year’s Eve party.

As the first to arrive, you’d gotten the coffee going on the ancient coffee maker that you were trying your hardest to get Penny to replace when a big hand skimmed the side of your waist, reaching past you to steal the cup you’d just poured for yourself.

You turned to see a sleepy looking Bradley standing behind you, his curled looked more like they were fresh off his pillow than the way you usually saw them styled.

“It’s too early for this.” You watched as he took a big swig from the cup, wincing as he registered just how hot Jimmy’s machine had brewed the coffee, just a couple degrees below scalding.

You gave him an unimpressed look, “Says the man who routinely wakes up at 5am for a sunrise run.”

“It’s the weekend, Bee,” Bradley said like it explained everything.

“It’s a Wednesday.”

“Schematics.” He took another deep sip of your coffee, but not before you caught the mischievous way his mouth was curved upwards. “Everyone knows the days between Christmas and New Years Day are the Wild West of the calendar year, every day is a weekend day from the 26th to the 1st.”

You actually hadn’t seen Rooster since Christmas.

You’d decided to spend the holiday in San Diego since your parents had decided this was the year they were finally going to check out the Christmas markets in Europe like they’ve always wanted too. And you didn’t want to crash your brother’s first Christmas as a dad, instead you’d sent the most obnoxious baby toy you could find online in addition to a silky soft stuffed rabbit with your niece’s name embroidered on the ear.

When you opened the front door with the pretty stained glass sailing boat picture window, you’d been surprised to see Bradley standing there with a white faux fur trimmed Santa hat and holding a bag with unexpectedly well wrapped presents in one hand and a creamy, cranberry-colored pie in the other.

Your hand stayed glued to the doorknob as his eyes trailed over you. The house had been warm but a shiver still worked its way through your body as he took in your festive pajamas.

Before he could say anything Amelia ever-so-helpfully pointed out the mistletoe you’d conveniently forgotten about that had been hung above the wood door. Frankly, she sounded a bit too enthusiastic about it.

He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like little punk, although his tone was so affectionate that you thought you must have misheard him. But you didn’t get to think on it for too long because then he was leaning in, in, in.

Your heart shot straight into your throat at the first prickle of his mustache and then the slightly dry lips as they brushed against your cheek for the briefest of moments.

And then he pulled away all too soon.

Friend. Friend. Friend. You tried to remind yourself, but your heart was too aflutter to get the message.

He looked you straight in the eyes as he stepped back, “Can you do me a favor, Bee?”

You must have made a sound that was close enough to an mhm, because then he passed you the bag of presents and the pie waiting only long enough to make sure you had a good hold on them both before darting around you to chase after Amelia.

Amelia squealed when Bradley caught her, ducking his head down to drop a playfully chaotic kiss on her cheek.

He ended up giving Penny and Mav the same treatment too. Although Pete shoved him away good-naturedly when he tried to plant a particularly sloppy one on him.

All while your feet stayed glued to the same spot they were when he kissed you.

But that was six days ago. Probably the longest stint without seeing him since you collided with him that afternoon a few months ago.

The smell of strong coffee and cinnamon had coaxed you back into the moment, and you’d shook your head a bit like that would help you clear your mind with Bradley standing so close to you again.

“I don’t think it’ll take us too long,” you declared, trying to get focused back on the task at hand- that being the unofficial head of the NYE decorating committee, “I even made us a schedule.”

“Of course you did. Is it color-coded?” he asked over the rim of the chipped mug.

“And if it is?” you countered, unashamed of your planning. And then there was that damn smile of his.

“Then I’m really going to need this coffee,” he winked, and poured you a cup of your own.

You’d been right though. With everyone pitching in things came together rather quickly.

The morning moving steadily as the Christmas decorations were replaced with classic the gold and white and black color scheme you’d went with for the party. The silver tinsel tree covered in beach themed shaped ornaments with a few planes hung about by the front door might have stood out at odds with everything else, but metallic was a neutral in your book so you’d opted to keep the cheerful tree up just a little bit longer and tucked a few party blowers into the branches to tie it in with the rest of the space.

It was easy for you to get in the zone, delegating and divvying up the tasks on your color-coded schedule, putting all your project tracking skills to use. There were dozens of strands of string lights that had to gone up on the ceiling and along the walls. All of the windows with the snowflake cut outs you and Amelia had made for Christmas were framed in a metallic fringe. There was a station with hats and headbands and glasses in case anyone was feeling particularly festive. The tables and booths had been stocked with noise makers and confetti poppers in addition to the mirrorball centerpieces and confetti scatter.

Everything sparkled and shined, the light bouncing off everything gave the bar a wonderfully hazy glow, it was the perfect ambiance for the most hopeful night of the year.

At one point, you’d been working on hanging up some dangling golden stars from one of the ceramic mug rounders only to find Bradley standing there at the base of the ladder behind you with a well-defined arm stretched out just in case you lost balance.

And then just like that, your focus went out the window. Because then he was everywhere. He made it impossible for you to not notice him, especially since so many of your jobs and his overlapped, something you’d come to regret more and more as the hours went by.

You’d been working on tying off balloons and lamenting the fact you didn’t order another pump with the tying tool, when you’d decided to take a break to massage your numb fingertips. You looked up to check the progress made with fresh eyes, to see Rooster on a ladder helping Mav to get the netting set up for the balloon drop.

The athletic shorts he’d been wearing were hanging low on his hips. And as he reached up to hand Pete another nail it caused his t-shirt to ride up giving you a glimpse of toned stomach and tantalizing v-lines. It was just as tempting as it was taunting.

You’d switched to ice water after that.

The image was seared into your mind for the rest of the afternoon. Not even the freezing cold shower you’d hopped into the second you made it back to your loft to freshen up before the party had helped. Neither had the rushed orgasm to take the edge off, because it wasn’t your own fingers that you wanted.

He’d found you before the party well and truly started.

You’d been double checking all the prep, making sure you had the bar stocked up as was possible without losing any valuable space, when you felt a hand on your back. Bradley was dressed up in a navy suit that fit him in all the right places, looking more handsome than you knew possible. All broad shoulders and thick thighs. The top button of his pristinely pressed white shirt undone, giving you a peek at the divot base of his throat.

You weren’t sure what made you more flustered, that hint of his neck or the skin under his bellybutton that you’d seen only a couple hours ago.

A soft smile coasted over his face as he took in your New Years’ Eve finest. “You look-”

“I know, rhinestones for New Years’ Eve, how groundbreaking,” you joked, cutting him off and giving your best Miranda Priestly impression.

You were wearing a black velvet jumpsuit for the party. You loved the way it fit the curves of your body and the way the halter top made your collarbones and shoulders look. There was just a hint of skin with the keyhole near the bust. But it was also practical- right down to your plain black no-show panties you had on- so you could move easily without worrying about giving anyone an eyeful. It wasn’t the flashiest of outfits, there’d be more than enough sequins later on, but the way Bradley was looking at you made it feel like your off the rack might as well be haute couture.

“I was going to say, you look good. Really good.” Bradley takes his time letting his eyes drag down your body, his cheek kicking up when he lands on your shoes. “I especially like the birks, they tie the whole look together.”

The clogs you were wearing were decidedly unsexy, not many people could pull of the potato shoe, but you weren’t there as a party guest, you still had work to do and your night was just getting started. “I don’t think stilettos and stouts would mix together very well,” you said by way of explanation.

Bradley chuckled and reached out taking an end of the little rhinestone bow that dangled from right beneath your neck where the straps met and twirled it between his fingers for a moment. “I think this might be my favorite part though,” he rasps lowly. There was an intensity in his eyes directed at you that you hadn’t seen before.

For a moment it looked like he was about to say more, and then a glass shattered.

The sound of it caused you to crash back into your body.

“And so it begins,” you announced, taking a half step backwards and out of his touch, that rhinestone cord falling back against your sternum with a gentle thud that you felt reverberate in your chest.

You heard him say your name, but you were already setting off for a broom.

So you’d kept your head down and your hands busy.

It felt like for every drink you made, two more were ordered. Barely noticing as the final minutes of this year flew by while you garnished drinks with bright cherries and slices of lemon with a flourish before handing them off.

Offering smiles and well wishes to those here to celebrate. True to your namesake as you swiped cards and counted bills and mixed and poured and served the drinks to the ever-rotating people in front of you.

You made eye contact with Rooster a couple times throughout the night, the same way you usually did when you were behind the bar and he was there. Eyes drawn to him like a magnet against your will.

He hadn’t come up to you at all since before the party started. You’d seen him with the Daggers when you went to refill the water tank, heard the keys of the upright piano when you grabbed more ice from the back room, saw him talking with the girl in the shiny dress and her interested eyes as you put the freshly washed glasses away.

Just like he’d been the best parts of your San Diego summers, he’d become the best part of your year.

You’d spent the last four months trying to convince yourself that it was a silly crush, that you could will it away or get over it. But now just a couple moments shy of a new year barreling towards you, it was time to face the fact that Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t someone you were ever going to get over.

Although if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you wanted to get over him.

You’re giving the counter a quick wipe down, taking advantage of the brief lull when the music cuts off, startling you out of your thoughts.

Twelve!

The countdown had snuck up on you. Just like everything else had this year.

Eleven!

You’d had your fill of unexpected surprises, some for the worse and some for the better. While it felt like you’d had more downs than ups, you were ending the year feeling the most content you have since you were laid off. And that was more than good enough for you.

Ten!

At the beginning of this year, you never would have guessed that you’d end it in San Diego. This year had taken from you, but it had also given you a lot. New friends, new places to explore, new memories, new hopes.

Nine!

You were still figuring things out and that was ok. Even though you still weren’t sure what was next for you, you knew everything would work out. One way or another you’d find yourself on the other side of this and able to look back with pride for making it through all the challenges that had been thrown your way.

Eight!

And while things didn’t shape out the way you anticipated them to, with goals still yet to be achieved and a vision board of ideas that you’d carry into the new year, you had so much to be grateful for.

Seven!

You liked San Diego- and not in the just-for-now way. You liked the life you were building here. You liked the beach and the sand and the sun. You liked you Sunday dinners with Penny and Amelia and Pete. You liked the people you were surrounded by. You liked the stories you’ve collected from your side of the bar. You liked the diner down the road with their perfectly shaped coffee cups. You liked your new normal while you got your feet back under you. You liked the potential you felt was here.

Six!

And then there was Bradley.

Five!

You were avoiding looking in his direction, too worried about what you might see, not wanting to end this year with another disappointment. You’ve come to accept that he had a piece of you that you weren’t sure you were ever going to get back. But that was something for you to deal with next year.

Four!

For now, you are right where you are supposed to be.

Three!

Because what is meant for you will never pass you by. Not in life and not in love. And that was something you could count on, something you could hold onto.

Two!

You smile to yourself and close your eyes.

The crowd chants One!

You breathe out and let go.

And when the cheers of Happy New Year! ring out, you breathe in and open your heart up to all the possibilities.

Enjoying the moment for what it was- exactly as it was- as the party noise makers started going off all around you.

As New Years’ kisses were traded.

As people greeted a fresh, bright New Year with wide-open and welcoming arms.

Where anything could happen.

Where anything was possible because the year was waiting to written.

You tip your head back and open your eyes, watching as the balloons you’d spent the afternoon tying knots in started to fall, slowly at first and then more until your view was a cocoon of black and gold and white and clear blocking out the rest of the world from view.

Time seemed to slow a bit as the confetti poppers joined the mix adding to the echo of fireworks going off nearby. The glints of gold and little shiny dots of sparkles and streamers seemed to hang in the air. There was a cacophony of cheerful noises, from the poppers to the people to the familiar sound of Whitney Houston being piped over the static-y speakers.

A moment of magic for you and you alone, as you pocketed the hope and optimism you felt rippling around you.

Over the next couple of hours pass just as swiftly as before. As you got back into the groove of serving people, your brain snagged on the sound of Aud Land Syne being played on the upright piano at the other end of the bar, and the only person it could be playing it.

It wasn’t long before people steadily started to trickle out the front door.

You’d made sure to shoo Penny out to the dance floor with Pete as the lineup of people slowed down enough for her to have some New Years Eve fun.

No one had gone too crazy, but even so, you helped arranged people rides to get home safe between closing out tabs and announcing the last call for the few people who wanted to stick it out until the very end. Waving to your new friends as they all slowly but surely made their exits.

You’d lost track of Rooster along the way, it would have been nice to wish him a Happy New Year, but it was probably for the best. It was easier on your heart to not know whether he left with some of the Daggers or with the girl with the silver sequins.

You just locked the door after the last couple stragglers had left for the night. You’d sent Penny away a little over a half an hour ago- along with Mav- since there’d been only a handful of people to look after.

She’d made you promise not to stay behind after locking up, but you didn’t see the harm in tidying things up a bit more. You were collecting the empty glasses that had been scattered about and abandoned on window ledges and tables when you caught a figure out of the corner of your eye, nearly causing you to drop the bus tub you were holding on to.

“Bradley! Jesus.” You set the plastic tub down on a table with more force than necessary, the glasses rattling against each other, and press a hand to your chest where your heart is rapidly knocking about. “What are you still doing here?”

You figured he left already, so you’re more than a little surprised he’s still here. And not just because he startled you half to death.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, putting his hands up. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, I was taking out some trash and then got held up talking to Jake for a few minutes. I didn’t realize everyone else had left.”

“I just locked the front doors,” you say, waving towards the now closed front door.

Bradley takes a cautious step closer. “So, it’s just us then?” He doesn’t even have the decency to look like he’s been partying for the better part of five hours, he looks just as handsome as he did at the start of the evening, whereas you’re sure you probably look as ruffled as you felt.

“We’re the last two standing,” you confirm, putting your hands on your lower back to stretch out the tightness that had settled along your spine over the course of the night, “But just barely, on my end.”

“You’ve been busy tonight.” You hum in agreement and reach for a foam-covered glass that was left between the coaster holder and napkin dispensers. His big hand closing around it first and he pins you with a look, leaning a hip against the table, “So tell me, why are you still cleaning when you and I both know for a fact Penny hired a crew to take care of this in the morning?”

You don’t have an answer for him, at least, not one you were willing to share. That even though the ball had dropped and the confetti had fallen you weren’t ready to have the night be over yet. Knowing that the moment you locked up for good and got in your car and headed home, that the bottle of champagne you’d bought for yourself and plans with Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal wouldn’t hit quite the way you’d hope it would.

Instead, you offer him a shrug.

Bradley’s eyes search yours for a moment before he gives you a gentle smile. “C’mon, busy bee, I think you’ve more than earned yourself a glass of champagne.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, already making his way towards the bar, not that you put up much of a fight. The ‘Greatest Hits’ playlist that Penny had queued up for the night is still playing in the background, you recognize opening notes of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” as you trail after him.

You lift an eyebrow as he pulls out a stool for you, but he just mirrors you by lifting one of his own and gestures to the seat. You think you feel his thumb sweep over your hip as he helps you into the stool before stepping into the front bar. A little sigh of relief slips out of you, finally off your feet for the first time all night.

You’re tired, but it’s a happy kind of tired. You’d had a nice time all things considering. Seeing the bright faces of everyone tonight had made all the work you’d put in feel worth it, all the planning and prep and decorating made it worth it if tonight ended up being a fond memory for someone.

Bradley grins at you from over his shoulder mischievously, “You know, Penny’s never let me behind the bar before.” He says it so conspiratorially, like he’s getting away with something and you’re an eyewitness to his delinquency, as if he wasn’t a decorated golden boy of the United States Navy.  

You laugh, endeared by the boyish smile on his face. “Probably because you’re never wearing the right shoes,” you tease, wiggling a clog towards him.

And he chuckles, warm and affectionate.

Rooster finds the freshly washed glasses easily- Pete had done a great job as the designated dishwasher of the evening, loading and unloading glasses as quickly as they came with speedy efficiency. You see as his hand hesitates for a moment eyeing the already open bottle of champagne on the counter warily, and you point a glossy cranberry coated fingernail to the fridge under the counter, where you knew a few uncorked ones were still stocked knowing that Penny won’t mind if you pilfer a celebratory bottle to share between yourselves.

With your help he finds the chilled bottle and shoots the cork across the room with a cheerful pop! You make a mental note to pick it up later marking the spot in your mind, which he must notice because he says, knowingly, “Don’t worry, I’ll grab it later. You’re officially off the clock.”

He pours you a glass and then one for himself with a flourish, clearly showing off as the bubbles fizz to the top of the rim without spilling over. You’ve spent all night catering to everyone else, it’s nice to have someone looking out for you now.

Rooster holds out a glass for you, “Cheers, Bee.”

You smile and clink yours against his.

The bubbles burst across your tongue, refreshing and crisp. The two of you sip on your glasses of champagne in companionable silence for a few moments, enjoying the calm after a busy day and busier night.

“Did you have a nice time tonight, Bradley?”

“It was nice enough, I guess,” he says, giving you a half smile, “I’m having a much better time now though.”

You take another little sip, attributing the fluttering in your chest to the bubbles.

“It feels weird to be sitting on this side of the bar,” you muse, changing the subject, “You know, I don’t think I made you a drink at all tonight.”

He takes the bottle and pours you a little more. “People kept hogging my favorite bartender.”

You grin into your glass.

“I would have made time for you,” you say.

He leans down and fold his arms in front of him, so that your faces are level. “You would have?”

The answer comes easily. “Of course.”

Bradley gives you a look you don’t know how to interpret, like reading your face isn’t enough that he wants to know what’s going on inside of your head. You always kind of thought your cards had been on the table the whole time, but maybe you’d been keeping them closer to your chest than you’d realized.

“It was nice of you to make sure Penny and Mav got out on the dancefloor earlier.”

“You saw that?” It hadn’t been an easy feat, but it had been worth it to see them looking at each other in a way you hoped you’d find someday.

His gaze is steady when he replies, “I did.”

Flustered now, you feel your cheeks heat up. “Amelia and I had a bet about if he was going to propose tonight, and I thought I’d do my part to try and help her win twenty dollars. I didn’t think he would, at least not here in front of a crowd of people, but I hope he’ll do it soon.”

He nods, taking a sip of his own, the tips of his ears getting red.

You lean forward on your elbows, “Tell me what you know, Bradshaw.”

“I’m a vault,” he says, shaking his head.

“Does he have a ring?” you ask, elatedly.

Bradley takes another deep sip of champagne, giving you nothing, at least not with his words. But you don’t need him to confirm, not with the way his lips are turned up, clearly happy for his uncle and your aunt.

Good, you smile to yourself, that’s good.

“I also happened to notice that you didn’t get to dance at all tonight.”

“No, I didn’t.” You could have. Penny had tried to get you to take a few minutes to enjoy yourself, but you kept finding excuses to stay planted where you were. “There’s always next year,” you add, circling your finger around the base of your champagne glass.

Bradley steps out from behind the bar and takes the half full glass from your hand, setting it on top of a coaster in a move that you find entirely too appealing.  And holds out a hand out for you, “We should fix that.”

His large fingers wrap around your hand- strong and sure- as he guides you towards the old jukebox, the two of you walking over the confetti covered floor and though the sea of balloons that bobbed in your wake.

He lets go when the two of you have reached the middle of the makeshift dancefloor that had been cleared of the tables that were normally there for the night. Your feet stay put as he makes his way to the sticker covered jukebox and starts flipping through the options.

“I keep trying to get Penny to get a new one that takes a card,” you say nervously, filling the quiet, the air now charged with something new between the two of you. “Or one with an app, where people could pay and pick things from their phone.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” he teases playfully, still scanning through the CDs, clearly on a mission to find a particular song.

“She keeps a couple spare quarters on the ledge behind it- but uhm- I’m not sure if they’re still there or not, or if people have already used them. I could grab some from the register-”

You take a half step back, but Rooster stops you.

“Don’t go flying away, Bee.” He pulls out his wallet from the inside of his suit jacket and fishes out a couple coins, holding them out on his flattened palm for you to see. “You see, I’ve been saving these ones for just the right girl.”

You didn’t know your heart could beat so fast.

Bradley slips them into the machine with a metallic plink, once and then twice. The corner of his mouth pulls up as his eyes drift over you. “Yeah, you’re definitely an N24 kind of girl.”

He punches in the code and walks purposefully back to you.

The gentle sound of an acoustic guitar crackles to life over the old speaker system of the Hard Deck, the song much slower than you were anticipating. The opening notes are familiar ones to you, but different than what you were used to hearing. This rendition was delicate and atmospheric. Intimate. Almost like the music was wearing its heart on its sleeve.

Bradley wraps an arm around you and pulls you in. His eyes are heavy on yours, you feel the weight of them everywhere. He coaxes your hand onto his broad shoulder and takes the other one in his, drawing it to his chest.

He holds you close as he leads you in a dance.

No one has ever looked at you the way he is looking at you.

“Ask me about my night again,” he murmurs, invitingly.

You swallow. “Did you have a nice time earlier tonight?”

“No.” Your breath stutters in your chest and you miss a step, but he easily guides you through it. “No,” he repeats, “I didn’t because I couldn’t spend it with the only person I want to.”

Your voice has escaped you, not that you’d trust it not to completely give you away.

“This is the part where you ask me how it’s going now.” He runs his thumb over the back of your hand, encouragingly.

“This doesn’t feel very friendly,” you whisper.

Bradley presses you even closer to him. Every part of you is touching him, and you’re warm everywhere. “That’s good,” he rasps, “Because I’m not really going for just ‘friendly’ here, honey.”

You see everything there plain as day, written all over his face.

All you can say is his name.

“Bradley.”

And he says yours in return, so gently like it’s precious to him.

“I kept hoping you’d look my way during the countdown. But then you looked so thoughtful and all I wanted was to see that moment through your eyes. I couldn’t look away, you’re so beautiful.”

Feeling brave, you slide your hands up his chest and around his neck, combing your fingers through the short hair at the base of his head. He hums, pleased and content.

“You didn’t get a New Years Eve kiss.” It’s a statement. Like he knows because he was paying attention.

Your stomach swoops, and it’s like you’re fifteen and riding the Giant Dipper again.

“Neither did you, it seems.” His eyes drop down to your mouth.

“No, I didn’t,” he confirms, raising a hand up and skimming his thumb along your lower lip. “But now I’ve got a whole year to practice.

Bradley brings both hands to cup your face. His eyes traveling from your eyes to your nose to your mouth, a soft smile on his face as he leans in to kiss you.

When his lips meet yours it’s like time stops. You can’t hear the music over the rushing in your ears or the beating of your heart. In that moment, all there is only Bradley.

There’s no hesitation in the way his mouth moves against yours. Or in the way his teeth grazes your lower lip, right before he follows it with his tongue. It’s as if he has played this moment in his head so many times before.

Like there was never a question in his mind about if it was ever going to happen, but when.

There’s a surety in his touch, in the way he cradles your face in his big hands, in the way he angles your head just right.

The way Bradley kisses you makes you feel like this is the moment he’s been waiting for the whole night.

That it’s the moment he’s been waiting the last four months for.

His kiss is sweet like cinnamon and you know you’ll never be the same now that you’ve had a taste of it.

Your first one of the year. And it belongs to Bradley Bradshaw. Just as you always hoped it would be.

He pulls away just enough to skim his lips teasingly against yours. “Happy New Year, Bee.”

“Happy New Year, Bradley.”

You grin and he dips back down to kiss you again.

Time ticks on, but this time there isn’t a countdown. Only his mouth against yours and your arms wrapped around his neck.

After a while, he pulls away again, looking entirely and thoroughly kissed. It’s a good look for him.

He smiles at you. “My mom used to believe in ‘beginning as you mean to go on’. Taking time on the first of a new year and doing something that you want to make a part of your year going forward,” he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb, “So if you’re up for it, honey, I’d like to take you out to breakfast at that 24-hour diner. Because I mean to go on with you this year and the next one after that if I’m lucky.”

“I’d like that,” you say, taking a snapshot of this moment and the way those warm, brown eyes are gazing at you. “Just as long as we leave some time for mine. I have an idea of how I’d like to ‘begin as I mean to go on’.”

“Yeah? What did you have in mind?”

You don’t answer, instead you just lean in close until you feel his smile pressed against your.

The two of you eventually lock up for the night, for good this time. But only after Bradley finally stops kissing you long enough to grab that cork he’d shot across the bar earlier, pretending not to see the way he tucked it into the pocket of his suit jacket.

He takes your hand in his warm one, his fingers slipping easily between yours like he’s done it hundreds of times before.

The sunrise is still a couple of hours away, but you can see the promise of dawn and all the possibilities it’ll bring.

Bradley turns his head back to look at you and grins, it’s wide enough that the corners of his eyes crinkle.

A new day, a new year.

And you can’t help but think that this really will be the best one yet.

Happy 2025, tgm friends! I hope this is your year! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

If you want to know what song Bradley played for Bee 🥰

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[mamasfavourite]

Hi your axel fic was really good! I was wondering if you could write a fic about kwon and a Miyagi-Do reader.Enemies to lovers lots of tension.

thank you so much and thank you aswell for requesting, i had sm fun with writing this!! i hope you enjoy :)

locker room

pairing: kwon jae-sung x reader

summary: kwon and y/n hated eachother, because of a little incident on the first day.. and because of the karate thing. but kwon can’t help but flirt around a little bit.

warnings: stupid rivalry, enemies to lovers!, kissing, making out, kwon is sassy, flirting, swearing,

you were so excited to be on the miyagi-do team for the sekai takai! you weren’t captain, but you didn’t mind at all because you had your best friend, sam, there with you and you knew your capabilities under pressure.

it was practically your natural state at this point :)

you and sam decided to share a room in barcelona. which was probably for the better, considering neither of you wanted to share with the boys, except for maybe sam and miguel.

after an insanely long flight, you arrived at the hotel and immediately dropped your backpack to your bed and felt each tired muscle in your back start to decompress.

you went to shower, wanting to rinse off the dirt from travelling. after washing your hair and body, you stepped out and dried yourself off. you brushed through your knotted, wet hair and put on some baggy shorts and an off-shoulder tshirt.

it was around 5:30pm, which meant it was around 8am back home, most of your team wouldn’t even be awake yet. you went back into the main area of the room and saw sam laying on her bed, scrolling on her phone.

“i’m gonna go down to the buffet and see if i can grab something to eat, do you want anything?” you asked her and she wearily looked up from her phone and replied with a “no, thanks!”

you smiled and acknowledged her response before you put on some sneakers and grabbed your phone and room key from on top the dresser, and headed out. you made your way to the elevator and managed to find the open buffet nearby the reception.

the buffet was relatively empty, which wasn’t surprising due to the lack of people who typically had an appetite at 5:30pm. there was one or two people in the corner, eating something you couldn’t quite make out, and someone else on the right hand side of the room.

you grabbed two pieces of a brown bread at the back of the serving tray. once you did, you grabbed a selection of butter, avocado and some smoked salmon, putting it beside the bread on your plate. yum!

you grabbed some tissues, and a knife and fork and began to walk back towards the elevator. the elevator was empty, so your ride was quite peaceful. you held the plate with both hands, the knife and fork, and napkin were balanced in your right hand.

you were so focused on holding onto your plate and keeping it steady, that as soon as you heard the elevator doors open with a ding!, you stepped out and immediately collided with a tall figure infront of you.

you watched in horror as the slimier foods slid down the person’s body and your plate landed on the carpet with a soft thump. you tilted your head upwards to look at their reaction before you frantically apologised.

of course, he was fucking gorgeous. the first enemy you make for yourself in barcelona was one of the most handsome men you had ever seen. he glared down at you which such anger. “what the fuck?” he said, with a thick, korean accent.

damn even his voice was hot!

as you came back up again you began to apologise. “i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to spill that on you, i can help you clean it or-“ you paused your rambling as you watched the guy continue to glare at you angrily through your speech.

his gaze was filled with nothing but fury. “don’t let it fucking happen again.” he bumped your shoulder as he walked past you, to the elevator. you knelt back down to the floor to clean up as much as you could, before you just went back to your room.

you saw him again the next day. the sekai takai had organised a field trip to the barcelona aquarium. there was a lot of different people there, but only one really stood out to you, and that was kwon.

well, clearly he stood out, i mean he was yelling at everyone, challenging all of the dojo captains to a kicking contest, and of course, robby couldn’t just step aside for once.

you were peacefully drinking your water, as the boys spoke, and it was safe to say you had zoned out completely. that was until you heard what they were betting. you coughed and spluttered, putting your water bottle into sam’s hands and struggling to speak for a second.

“sorry what?” you asked, with a mix of confusion and embarrassment. kwon’s head turns to you with his signature smirk, one you only noticed now, as before he had only thrown scowls your way.

“i said..” he paused and took one step closer to you. “if he wins, he gets my room, if i win, i get yours.” he delivered with a wink. you felt your cheeks heat up, confused as to why this was because you were enraged.

“what, how is that fair, i’m not even playing?” you answered, angry that your room was being gambled away without your consent. your weight shifted from one foot to the other.

“oh relax, sweetheart, i wouldn’t kick you out or anything.” he flirted with you once more before he turned his body back to robby and held out his hand

“deal.” robby answered, and they shook on it. you gasped, and pushed robby in the chest. but at the same time, you were confused because why would this hot guy from the elevator, who DESPISES you, want the key to your room?

despite his skills, robby somehow lost the competition and you find yourself face to face with kwon. “hand over the room key, princess.” you wanted nothing more than to wipe the stupid smirk off his face and tell him to leave you alone. your response was only a little bit nicer than that. “no.” you replied, your gaze shifting around the room, as you felt scared to look him in the eyes.

“if you’re gonna try to reject me, at least look in my eyes when you do it.” he spoke, his voice low and commanding. something about it made you wanna listen, and so you did.

you stared into his dark eyes and repeated yourself. “i don’t want to give you my room key.” he chuckled to himself, under his breath. you maintained eye contact, not wanting to pull away.

he rolled his eyes at your attitude. “okay, well i’m gonna talk to your captain over there, and sort this out because a deal is a deal.” he replied and started walking over to robby.

they argued back and forth for a while but in the end, you didn’t have to sleep in a room with kwon. much to his dismay, robby gave up him and miguel’s room and had to share with the other boys.

your next interaction happened on the day of the final. cobra kai had narrowly escaped elimination and were going to fight in the last round. the matches were 30 minutes from starting and you had only then realised that you wouldn’t have another opportunity to go back inside the locker rooms and you left your water bottle there.

you ran over to the shared locker rooms, one you coincidentally shared with cobra kai, as soon as you arrived, you found yourself stopped in the doorway watching as the very guy you had secretly hoped to see was there, packing up some of his gear.

the large metal door was propped open by a small wooden doorstop, a detail that you had missed in the midst of your staring. you took a step forward and knocked over the doorstop. you stumbled, nearly falling to the ground.

kwon turned around at this and let out a small laugh at your misfortune, but he shut up as soon as he realised the door was shut and could not be opened from the inside.

“do you have any idea what you just did.” he practically growled at you. he was absolutely enraged, but he didn’t seem as angry as he had been during the elevator incident. you apologised but he still seemed quite angry.

you sat down against the wall, and he sat on a bench across from you. there was quite a loud silence between you, except for the quiet whirring of the fan above you. you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off of kwon. he bothered you, and confused you and made you feel things and ugh.

you hated him, but most of all you hated his karate. wait.. maybe you could start a conversation about that! “what got you into cobra kai?” you asked him.

you looked up at him and he met your gaze. he swallowed, and left the silence there for a moment as he thought of what to say.

“well, i was in a dojang before, do you know what that is?” he replied and you nodded along, your interest piqued.

“so my kwanjang was incredibly conservative. she knew one style of teaching and disciplined anyone who didn’t feel comfortable with it. it was rough, it was such a fucked up environment, but then sensei kreese came and she never relaxed but he helped me seize my power, and i haven’t really looked back since then.”

he spoke with conviction and you were surprised by his sincerity. you thought for a moment, never taking your eyes off his and replied. “i get that.”

a beat passed. “but cobra kai is angry, it’s viscous, and there’s no ethics to it. no mercy is not how the real world works.”

he swallowed and nodded, accepting the weight of your words, and you were impressed that he was so considerate of you. he matched your behaviour, taking his time to think of what to say before he replied.

“well, look. at the end of the day, i have to look out for myself. i know who i am and no dojo can change it.”

you accepted his answer, truth be told, you fully agreed. and your impression of him completely shifted. you shivered slightly, the room had turned quite cold. kwon noticed and you watched as he removed the cobra kai hoodie he wore over his gi.

he offered it to you which you gladly accepted, and flushed a little. he scooted across the floor to hand it over to you.

he was really close and he brushed his fingers over your wrist as he handed it to you. you put it on, and he felt something inside him flutter as he saw you in his clothes.

you glanced at him and he was so close you couldn’t feel your legs anymore. you couldn’t feel your fingers or the emptiness of the room because all you paid attention to was his gaze, that was still never left you.

his expression turned vulnerable as he put a hand to your cheek. “please don’t hit me for this…” he whispered, as he leaned in close to you and kissed you.

his lips were soft and you couldn’t help but wrap your fingers around his collar to pull him closer to you. you kissed him with passion and at some point, you pulled back, out of breath.

he seemed even more vulnerable for a moment, thinking he was just rejected. “do you want me to stop?” he asked you, his voice laced with a worry that you found difficult to detect.

you panted for a second, your hands never leaving his collar and your eyes never leaving his. “just the opposite, please.” you mumbled breathily against his lips as you pulled him back in, reconnecting your lips.

[fear-is-truth]

𝓝𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝓐𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓 ── ft. 𝐍𝐀𝐌-𝐆𝐘𝐔 ┊남규

warnings — MDNI 18+・ fem!reader ・english is not my first language so bear with me・not proofread

❥ a/n: think i might’ve gone a lil carried away. oh well

𝓐 = 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 . . . what he’s like after sex

nam-gyu is not particularly soft or sentimental about it. he’s not the type to whisper sweet nothings or linger too long in the moment unless it suits him. aftercare for him is minimal, functional—if it happens at all.

he might roll over or light a cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily into the air as he decompresses. but he’s not completely thoughtless; he’d notice if you looked uncomfortable or out of sorts. “you good?” might be all he says, his tone almost indifferent, but the way his eyes flicker toward you gives him away—he’s serious.

if you ask for something—water, a towel, or cuddles—nam-gyu would sigh like it’s an inconvenience, but he’d still do it. begrudgingly, but he’d do it. he’s not used to giving, so gestures like helping clean up or asking if you’re okay feel foreign to him. he’ll grumble about it, but deep down, there’s a satisfaction in being needed.

his movements are kinda clumsy when he bothers to help. he’ll shove a glass of water into your hand or awkwardly brush your hair away from your face. physical closeness is rare unless you initiate it. if you nuzzle against him, he’ll freeze for a second before relaxing, letting you rest against his chest.

𝓑 = 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 . . . his favorite body part of his & yours

nam-gyu is obsessed with his hands—long, slender fingers that are both capable and calculating. he knows how to use them, and he likes to watch the way they move, whether he’s lighting a cigarette, adjusting his rings or gliding them over your skin.

after fights, he secretly enjoys when you tend to his scraped or bruised knuckles, even though he’ll complain about the sting of antiseptic. the way you fuss over him feels intimate, and he secretly enjoys it.

there’s a lewd fascination with how his hands look around your neck or slipping past your lips for you to suck on. not just sexual (though it is very much sexual); it’s also the thrill of control and trust, how you let him push boundaries.

has a not-so-subtle fixation on your breasts, and it’s written all over him whenever you wear something that accentuates it. tube tops, low necklines—they might as well be his weakness. his eyes linger too long, dark with something both appreciative and borderline lascivious, and he doesn’t even bother hiding it. likes to encircle his arms around you from behind under the guise of a hug, but uses that as an opportunity to grope and squeeze at your tits.

𝓒 = 𝐂𝐔𝐌 . . . anything to do with cum, basically

nam-gyu is not reckless when it comes to stuff like this; he uses condoms most of the time—even though he would prefer to fuck you raw, the two of you aren’t ready to deal with the consequences or extra effort. not in this economy…

he generally hates mess. not because he’s a clean freak, but because he’s practical to a fault. the thought of having to change the sheets annoys him enough to avoid it altogether. if things get messy, he’ll grumble about it, probably throw the blanket over the spot, and deal with it later—or make you deal with it.

sure, the sight of you on your knees—lips swollen, eyes watering—gulping down his load does something to him, but what he loves more is making a mess on you, your body is his favourite canvas. he’s not subtle about it either. the lazy smirk on his face when he sees the sticky aftermath on your chest, abdomen or ass? pure satisfaction. “guess we need a shower now,” he’ll say, acting like it’s the most natural solution. the shower is just another excuse to keep his hands on you.

𝓓 = 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 . . . pretty self explanatory

pansexual or bisexual but would rather choke than admit it, even to himself.

and yeah, he’s totally a panty thief. likes to jerk off with your lace panties wrapped around his cock.

𝓔 = 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 . . . how experienced is he? does he know what he’s doing?

yes, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s not shy about letting you know. his confidence is almost obnoxious, but it’s earned—he’s had enough practice to back it up.

his body count isn’t as high as he brags it to be, but working as a club promoter has its perks. his looks, charm, and the nightlife scene give him a lot of opportunities.

𝓕 = 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 . . . this goes without saying

definitely missionary or any position that lets him see your face. it’s not necessarily about the intimacy—he just likes watching your reactions, like he’s trying to gauge how much control he has.

he’s also into standing positions in small or semi-public spaces, like bathrooms or closets. the risk factor gives him a thrill, and he loves the idea of being impulsive and spontaneous with you.

when he’s sleepy but still wanting to fuck, he defaults to cowgirl. he’s too tired to put in much effort, so he’ll let you take the reins while he lounges back, half-lidded but still enjoying the view of your bouncing tits. his hands won’t stay idle, though—he’ll grab your hips, guiding you just enough to stay in control without actually moving much himself.

𝓖 = 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐘 . . . is he more serious in the moment? or is he humorous? etc.

he’s playful and teasing during foreplay—loves getting a rise out of you. but the second things escalate, he flips a switch and gets super serious. no laughing or joking in the middle of it—it’s like he’s hyper-focused, almost like he has something to prove.

𝓗 = 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 . . . how well groomed is he? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.

the carpet matches the drapes, though he doesn’t think about it much. also, he’s naturally sparse down there, but still keeps it trimmed. not obsessive about grooming, but he knows the bare minimum is necessary.

𝓘 = 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐘 . . . how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect

during sex, nam-gyu isn’t traditionally romantic, but he’s deeply physical and expressive in his own way. he doesn’t rely on words or overt displays of affection; instead, he shows his emotions through the way he fucks you, like he’s trying to prove something to himself—or maybe to you. he thrives on control and the feeling of being desired, so he focuses on what gets the strongest reactions out of you.

emotionally, he struggles with vulnerability. if he feels too exposed or like things are getting too intimate, he’ll mask it by being rougher or redirecting the focus back onto you. for him, sex is both an outlet for his insecurities and a way to feel closer (in the spiritual sense and literal sense) to you without actually having to open up.

𝓙 = 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅𝐅 . . . masturbation headcanon

he’s pretty average about it—not an excessive masturbator, not abstinent; it’s just another part of his routine. usually to porno magazines, or even just your instagram beach photos. if you guys have made sex tapes, then he’d jerk off to that.

if you ever walked in on him, he’d play it off with a smirk and a sarcastic comment like, “oh, hey, you’re just in time.”

𝓚 = 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 . . . one or more of his kinks

asphyxiation: there’s something strangely erotic to him about having his hand around your neck, feeling your pulse beneath his fingers. the power dynamic in that moment is a huge turn-on for him.

praise kink: he’ll never in a million years admit it, but hearing you tell him how good he is or how much you need him in that breathy way fuels his ego like nothing else. one of the rare things that makes him feel genuinely confident rather than overcompensating.

light bondage: he’s into improvising—using things like neckties or scarves to tie your wrists.

𝓛 = 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 . . . favourite places to do the deed

your place or his are his favorites. while nam-gyu enjoys the occasional quickie in the club’s bathroom or a blowjob in his car, he’s not big on real risks—he likes the privacy and control that comes with familiar settings. the bedroom is his domain, where he feels most comfortable. to have the freedom to let loose without worrying about interruptions or consequences.

𝓜 = 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 . . . what turns him on

revealing outfits drive him crazy. whether it’s a short skirt, a crop top, or something sheer, he won’t bother hiding how much he’s staring. if anyone else is looking too? it flips a switch in him, equal parts possessive and turned on.

you being a little wild, rebellious, or feisty absolutely does it for him. that lana del rey lyric, “i heard that you like the bad girls, honey is that true?” yup. very true. might as well be written about him. he loves seeing you do rebellious, crazy shit—flipping off a guy who’s being a creep, starting a catfight—makes his blood rush south.

𝓝 = 𝐍𝐎 . . . something he wouldn’t do, turn offs

overtly public sex is a hard no for him. he likes the idea of risk but not the actual consequences, so anything too exposed or risky is off the table. he’s not into watersports either.

𝓞 = 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋 . . . preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

definitely more of a receiver. he’s selfish about it and won’t hesitate to ask for a blowjob outright, expecting you to comply like it’s second nature.

however, nam-gyu knows when to step up—like when you’re mad at him or during your time of the month. in those moments, he’ll willingly switch roles and be a giver, partly to make amends and partly because it’s one of the few ways he knows how to take care of you.

𝓟 = 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 . . . is he fast and rough? slow and sensual?

most of the time, he fucks you fast and rough, driven by his impatience and desire to be in control. he doesn’t like drawing things out unless he’s teasing you to get a reaction—then, he’ll slow down just enough to keep you frustrated.

when he’s drunk or sleepy, though, he’s slower, almost a sensual edge to it, like he’s savouring the moment because he’s too tired to rush. it feels more intimate than usual, even if he doesn’t realise it.

if he’s half-asleep but still horny, he’ll put in the effort despite his exhaustion. it’s less about performance and more about fulfilling that need, but his thrusts are deeper and in a more rhythmic, relaxed tempo. he’d probably crash right after.

𝓠 = 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐄 . . . his opinions on quickies

quickies are practically his bread and butter, especially when he’s at work or in a time crunch. he often initiates one in random places around club pentagon if he thinks you can get away with it. it’s part of the thrill for him—he loves the challenge of making you cum in a tight timeframe.

𝓡 = 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊 . . . is he game to experimenting? does he take risks? etc.

he’s open to experimenting as long as it doesn’t cross into his hard “no” zones.

𝓢 = 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀 . . . how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?

if he’s sober, he can usually manage one solid rounds, maybe two if he’s really into it. he tends to push himself, but he doesn’t have endless energy—he says it’s “more about quality over quantity.”

if he’s high, it’s hit or miss. sometimes drugs make him last longer, but other times, he burns out quickly, cummin’ too early and getting embarrassed about it.

𝓣 = 𝐓𝐎𝐘𝐒 . . . does he own toys? does he use them? on you or himself?

nam-gyu doesn’t spend money on toys, but he has a friend who runs a sex shop, and he’s shameless about “borrowing” or pressuring them to hand over new stuff.

he’s not really dependent on them but enjoys using them for variety, especially if it’s something you’re curious about. his main focus is on impressing you, so if toys can help, sure he’s all in.

𝓤 = 𝐔𝐍��𝐀𝐈𝐑 . . . how much he likes to tease

“unfair” is his middle name…and he’s so mean about it. he’ll pretend to ignore you, act aloof, or be completely indifferent just to get under your skin. loves it when you get flustered and whiny, feeding off your reactions like it’s his favourite pastime.

he’s got zero sportsmanship, though. if you flip the script and start teasing him, he’ll immediately get defensive or annoyed, like, “can you stop? it’s not funny.” he can dish it out but can’t take it.

𝓥 = 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄 . . . how loud he is, what sounds he makes

not super loud, definitely on the quieter side. more of a grunter and groaner. dirty talk happens, but it’s not a constant thing—he saves it for when he wants to rile you up. most of the time, his focus is on showing rather than talking.

𝓦 = 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃 . . . a random headcanon

okay, hear me out: ever since he met the famous rapper in club pentagon he has some weird fantasy involving you, him, and thanos (his threesome dream team). it started as a passing thought—but the more he thought about it, the more it spiraled into something oddly specific.

𝓧 = 𝐗-𝐑𝐀𝐘 . . . what’s going on under those clothes

namgyu’s body is lean and deceptively strong. he’s not overly bulky, but his frame has a wiry, muscular quality to it. he was built for stealth and speed rather than brute force. his abs aren’t overly defined, but a v-line runs down to his waist.

okay okay i know y’all are waiting for this… approximately 6 inches erect and slightly curved to the right. rosy pink tip. definitely veiny, has a vein that starts on the side and breaks off into two and one goes all the way to the tip.

𝓨 = 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . . how high is his sex drive?

working at a club means being constantly surrounded by temptation and indulgence, which naturally keeps his desire elevated. despite this, nam-gyu’s self-control is remarkable—largely because of the demands of his environment. he’s learned how to compartmentalise and maintain razor-sharp focus, even in high-stakes or chaotic situations. but when the moment presents itself, when there’s no pressing business to handle or distractions to fend off, all that restraint slips away, and his libido skyrockets.

𝓩 = 𝐙𝐙𝐙 . . . how quickly he falls asleep afterwards

when he’s had a particularly intense time or pushed himself physically and mentally, he’ll crash immediately. on nights where he’s less physically exerted, it’s more of a slow burn—he lays in bed, smoke some fags to decompress, getting lost in the post-coital haze as his mind wanders.

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[inkdrinkerworld]

i feel like a good staple angsty topic is safety

homegirl went on a walk and forgot her phone cuz she’s stressed af and life sucks, matt is pissed cue the fight and then cue the “silent treatment”, cue the tears, and then cue the lovey dovey cuddle apology love making

Omg nonnie, I love you thank you sm for this💛 mention potential death because Matt’s a touch dramatic

You’d had a shitty day and you’d just wanted to relax. You’d just needed a minute to decompress, to forget about how bad your day had been.

So what if you wanted to take a walk? You just needed to forget all of the stress. You found a spot in the park and just laid under a tree, watching the sky and the clouds that passed by.

You’d only realised how late it was when you say the pink in the sky. You hustle home, imagining how worried Matt is. Your phone had died as you’d sat in the park.

The second the door opens Matt freezes and so do you. “Where the hell have you been?”

You bristle, “In the park. I’d just went for a walk and the evening got away from me. My phone died, I’m sorry if I worried you.”

That calm that you’d felt in the park is gone when Matt slams his hand down on the kitchen island. You struggle not to jolt at the sound.

“You’ve been gone for hours, no one saw you. I’ve been blowing your phone up since you got off work.”

Your hackles are raising again, “Matt, I just said my phone died. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I just wanted to take a walk after work.”

He’s not letting it go. “Do you understand how irresponsible that was? Anything could’ve happened to you! We live in Hell’s Kitchen, for gods sake.”

You can’t help it. You feel like he’s backing you into a corner, “Nothing did Matt! You can take a breath knowing you won’t have to avenge my death by sinning your soul away. I said I was sorry, what more do you want?”

Matt, ever the lawyer can’t back away from an argument. “Some accountability would be nice.”

“What more fucking accountability do you need? My phone died, I’m sorry you were worried.”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says, he just goes on and on about the possibility of having to find out you were hurt, or dead.

So much for getting a little break from your stressful day.

“Matt, I understand you’re upset but it’s enough now. I’m not a child and you’re not my father. I don’t need to be scolded repeatedly after I’ve already apologized.”

All he mutters is, “Fine.”

For the next two days, you’re both walking around on egg shells. Matt doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t initiate conversation and doesn’t answer when you ask him anything, so you just stop talking.

You go to work and come home and you and Matt act like you’re roommates who don’t know each other.

You won’t lie and say it doesn’t hurt your feelings, you’ve never done well with the silent treatment, but if Matt doesn’t want to talk, you won’t force him.

It’s not until the third night, when you can’t stand sleeping next to him but not have his leg over yours or have his hand on your back, that you take your pillow and start to get up.

“Sweetheart?” He shifts on the bed and you can’t help the way your breath shakes. You’re sure he can hear it.

“M’just going to the sofa.” You will yourself to keep your words even, but it’s no use, Matt can hear your heart. And it’s stuttering, skipping beats like crazy.

“Sweetheart, no.” He reaches for your wrist and you let him, touch starved for his affection.

“You’re still upset and it doesn’t feel good. I’m really sorry Matt but you’re being mean now.” Your voice cracks at the end and Matt feels guilt settle deep in his bones.

He scoops you up in his arms, straight into his lap as your first couple of tears fall. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs the words just beside your ear. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Your tears keep falling, fast and hot down your cheeks. “I really didn’t mean to worry you.” You hiccup through the words and Matt can practically feel how your heart clinches.

“I know, I know.” He’d been an ass. Even Foggy had told him so. You were safe and okay when you got home. You didn’t deserve the silent treatment.

“I’m sorry too sweetheart. I was pissed and I couldn’t regulate, so I just stayed quiet but that was stupid.” Matt squeezes his arms around you when you hiccup again. “I was really worried and scared and when you just came home I couldn’t let it go.”

“I came home as soon as I realized how long I’d been gone.” You say softly, your voice so small and timid. Matt hates that he’s made you feel like this.

“I know sweetheart.” He kisses your temple. “Forgive me for being an ass?”

You sigh, all jagged and harsh. “You can’t just not talk to me. I don’t like the silent treatment.”

He nods, “It won’t happen again.”

“I forgive you Matt. I’m still worry you were worried.”

He tuts, “I’d forgiven you since you walked through the door. I just didn’t know where to put all my worry.”

“I love you,” he murmurs, all quiet like a secret.

You stay in Matt’s lap, his arms wrapped around you as he settles you both back down in bed. Matt’s hand is housed to your back, rubbing soothing stripes up and down your back as your legs slot between his.

“I love you too Matt.”

[buckymorelikefuckme]

fri(end)s

bucky barnes x fem reader

words: 3.8k

warnings & tags: **18+ ONLY** friends/roommates to lovers oh my god they were roommates, smoking weed, brief mutual masturbation, frottage (i think that's the right word idfk i'm all out of practice), p in v sex, unprotected sex (don’t do that), reader has nipple piercings bc i said so, slight pain kink? mayhaps? ok pls let me know if i’ve missed anything!

a/n: i made this fic my bitch tonight. this is absolutely not proofread or beta'd, you're just gonna have to take it for what it is, sorry not sorry. anyway, it’s been too long since i wrote for this beefy man :’) i really hope you like it. this was originally very loosely inspired by a scene in what’s your number? but it quickly gained a mind of its own to become what it is now, so. there ya go. title is from the song of the same name by V of bts thank you very much. any and all mistakes are my own. feedback is greatly appreciated and heavily encouraged!!! xoxo

bucky barnes masterlist || main masterlist

Bucky’s introduction to weed was something you’d been supremely proud of.

When the two of you became roommates, you both had been kind of quiet and kept to yourselves at first, which isn’t too unusual, but you noticed that Bucky almost always had a frown etched into his handsome face. A frown that only ever softened after a night out with his friends and, you assumed, a decent hook-up. It never took long for that frown to reappear, though.

You didn’t know what could have been so stressful for him, but you knew he needed a way to relax, and not just for himself, either. The sight of him glumly moving around the apartment—honestly, you’ve never seen someone make fixing a bowl of cereal look so fucking sad—was beginning to weigh on your own nerves.

So, naturally, you thought of asking him if he’s ever tried weed. Somehow, his frown had deepened at that question. He said no, shocking absolutely no one, and then you asked if he wanted to try it. Admittedly, he was a little hesitant at first, but he eventually agreed.

The way his body, all two hundred and whatever pounds of muscle and angst, sank into the recliner like a ragdoll when the high really hit him made you grin. Though, to be fair, you were already smiling, what with you also being high. It was the first time you saw a real, genuine smile from Bucky, and you were immensely pleased to have given him a way to decompress from whatever kept him so tense all the time.

It became a sort of thing for you two. Saturday nights were for getting high, binge-watching Love Island (UK, because you both have class, thank you very much) and raiding the pantry for all the good snacks when the munchies hit. You’d never tell anyone, but those nights quickly became something you looked forward to every week, something you could cling to when your own life got a little difficult. Who knew smoking weed—and on a few special occasions, doing edibles—with your roommate would make a friendship blossom so prettily?

***

After how late Bucky got in last night, you knew he’d be sleeping in and would more than likely have a hangover. So, for this particular Saturday morning, you get up and quietly start gathering your laundry while Bucky snores loudly into his pillow from his bedroom. You were getting behind on it anyway, down to your last pair of clean shorts.

Before you put them on, though, you purse your lips in thought, staring at your pile of dirty clothes. You didn’t want to put on clean shorts with the panties and shirt you slept in last night. It would be smarter to wash them with the rest of your clothes, right? But that would leave you topless, which, you wouldn’t exactly be opposed to it, but you’re not sure Bucky would appreciate waking up to you walking around with your tits out. Or maybe he would? Whatever, it doesn’t matter.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts and then remember that Bucky did his laundry yesterday, and knowing him, he probably left at least some of his clean clothes in the dryer. Surely he wouldn’t mind you borrowing a shirt.

With that plan in mind, you dump your clothes into your laundry basket and make your way down the hall to the doors where your washing and drying units are (a major selling point of the apartment, if you’re honest). Just like you thought, Bucky’s left a load in the dryer, and even some of his button-downs are hung up on the drying rack. You quickly pull your t-shirt off, shivering against the cool air, and reach for one of the hangers, slipping his shirt off of it and onto yourself. For a dress shirt, it’s actually quite comfortable, obviously one of the shirts he wears more often with how soft and a little worn the fabric is. You shimmy your panties down your legs and add them to your pile, grabbing your clean shorts and tugging them on, too.

You make quick work of starting your first load of clothes, closing the doors to muffle the sound of the washer, and head back to your room to do your morning routine. By the time you’re done and have also cooked yourself breakfast, Bucky is staggering down the hall and into the kitchen, hair a tangled nest atop his head and eyes bleary.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you greet with a teasing smile.

He flips you off and beelines for the coffee machine, pouring himself a cup and not speaking a word until he’s downed at least half of it. Part of you is concerned for his esophagus, but you’ve long since come to the conclusion that Bucky’s probably got a thing for pain—both physically and emotionally.

“Remind me to tell Sam he isn’t allowed to bring Natasha on our nights out anymore,” he grumbles, voice rough from both sleep and a long night of drinking. “I’ve never taken so many shots of vodka in my life.”

You hum. “Sounds like my kind of woman, actually.” He cuts his eyes at you, silently judging while taking another sip of his coffee. “Want me to fry up some bacon and eggs for you?” You almost laugh at the way his expression immediately switches to pleading.

The rest of the morning is spent finishing your laundry and putting it all away, even gathering up Bucky’s clothes that he’d left and dumping them on his bed. You’ll leave the folding to him, though; your generosity only extends so far, after all.

Lunch rolls around and you both decide to order takeout from the burger place down the street, Bucky shushing you when you keep insistently whispering for him to order extra truffle fries (which he does order, after you’ve sworn pain of death if he doesn’t) and once it arrives, the two of you settle around the coffee table in the living room, putting on a random movie to watch while you eat.

And of course, when the sun begins to lower on the horizon, you start pulling out your stash and getting everything ready. Bucky’s already got the windows open in the living room to let the smell air out as you smoke, and he also has Love Island queued up and ready to go.

While you smoke the first joint, you make the conscious decision to bake a small batch of brownies for later. Bucky sits on the counter beside you, passing the joint back and forth as he quietly watches you work. Wordlessly, you hand over the bowl and spoon to him after you’ve poured the batter into the awaiting pan. No matter how many times you’ve tried to warn him about salmonella he always insists on licking them clean.

Sometimes, in these moments, you forget how surly he used to be with you. Not that he was ever rude or anything, but he never would have pouted about not being able to eat raw brownie batter before you helped him break down some of those walls of his.

***

“He’s such a dick,” Bucky mumbles a while later, face impassive and tone bland as he refers to one of the islanders of the show, slouching so deeply into the couch he’s practically become one with it.

The high from the first joint is finally kicking in fully, doing its job of releasing every ounce of tension from your bodies. It’s also making your mouth dry and tummy rumble for snacks. Thank god you made those brownies and Bucky unearthed some candy from past movie nights and lots of chips out of the pantry cabinets.

You hum at his comment. “Most men are.”

Bucky turns his head in your direction with an affronted expression that has you snickering. He goes to reply, giving you the sassiest once-over you’ve ever seen, but his eyes doubletake on your torso and he pauses. He stares for a moment.

“That’s my shirt,” he states.

You look down at the shirt in question, of which you’ve worn all day long and somehow he’s only just now noticing.

“Wow, you’re like Sherlock Holmes or something,” you drawl.

Bucky stares some more, and then, “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

“Because I had laundry to do and I needed something to wear while all my stuff was washing,” you say in a “duh” tone.

“But…” He frowns. “It’s my favorite.”

You snort inelegantly. “Bucky, you literally have, like, at least four other white dress shirts.”

“So? What, I can’t have a favorite one just because I have more of the same color?”

“Christ,” you say on an exasperated exhale. “I’ll give it back before bed, okay? I don’t wanna move right now. I’m scared I’ll bump into stuff again.”

Bucky huffs a laugh at that, which turns into a full-blown giggle fit that is contagious. Soon after your shared laughter dies down, the conversation moves back to the illicit love triangles among the islanders. You trash talk the couple that Bucky likes, just to see him get riled up and rant about how they’re the most real couple of the season and everyone else is just jealous. He gets red in the face and pouty when you remind him that this is a heavily produced show about pretty people getting a chance to get famous for being pretty people by hooking up with each other and playing stupid games that mean nothing in the grand scheme of it all. Really, it’s quite cute.

To placate him, though, you get a second joint rolled and let him take the first hit.

***

Turns out this second one hits you rather harder than normal. It feels like your head is a balloon and your neck is the string tethering it to the rest of your body. Everything feels much more sluggish compared to all the other times you’ve gotten high with Bucky. Somewhere in the depths of your hazy brain you remember that you’d gotten a different brand this time around; perhaps that’s why.

On the tv, the islanders are getting ready for bed, and once the lights go out in their room, some of the couples engage in some serious heavy petting, lifting their comforters for a semblance of privacy. The sounds start next, sighs and low moans, and it all begins to settle into your subconscious. Between one lazy blink and the next, you realize you’re… actually kind of horny. It’s not enough for you to really pay attention to it, not at first, just a little sprinkle of it, a tiny twist in your core that briefly has you pressing your thighs together then relaxing again.

But then the arousal builds up inside you so slowly and easily that you don’t even realize your hand has apparently grown a mind of its own and found its way down your shorts. You inhale sharply at the touch of your fingers against your clit, lashes fluttering as the sensation registers. The sound gains Bucky’s attention from where he's been lounging on the opposite end of the couch with his head tipped back and eyes closed.

They’re not closed anymore. Out of your peripheral, you see his head shift in your direction, feeling the weight of his stare like a physical thing. Your mind is both connected and disconnected from your actions, half-aware that this is probably not the smartest thing to be doing, that you’re absolutely crossing a major boundary. Touching yourself in this way in front of your roommate, your friend, is so not normal.

Yet, for some idiotic reason, you leave your hand down your shorts, continuing to lightly pet at your clit, neediness rising steadily. Even though you know he’s watching—and suspiciously quiet—you can’t help but let your fingers slither down to where you’re beginning to drip to gather some of your slick and bring it back to your clit and swirling your fingers at a sedate pace, sighing as your nipples tighten underneath your shirt.

Bucky is as still as a statue, gaze honed in on the movement of your hand, on how your thighs ease open more and more the longer you play with your pussy.

It takes very little time for your eyes to wander over to the man just a couple feet away, and to then notice and fixate on the growing bulge in Bucky’s sweatpants. The weight of his stare is almost a physical thing and you swallow roughly as you think about what he might look like, if he’s at all how you’ve secretly imagined when you’re alone in your bedroom, in much the same position as you are in now.

His hands creep towards his thighs and smooth down the expanse of them and back up, slowly, over and over, like he’s teasing himself. Like he’s teasing you. Your fingers don’t stop as you lift your other hand to tweak and pinch at your nipples through well-worn cotton, a tiny noise slipping past your dry lips.

Bucky pulls the hem of his shirt up, exposing part of his toned stomach and only hesitates for a split second before he lowers the waistband of his pants, pulling his cock out and matching the pace of his strokes with the pace of your fingers. The head of his cock is pink and precum makes it shine under the low light of the lamps in the living room.

You bite your lip as your arousal increases from the sight alone, and you decide to follow his lead, just a bit. You whine from the loss of stimulation when you remove your hand to shimmy your shorts down and off your legs, letting them fall to the floor carelessly. And now, Bucky has an unrestrained view of your glistening cunt as you sink two of your fingers inside yourself and use your other fingers to rub all around your clit. It has you gasping, eyelids threatening to close through the pleasure that sparkles throughout every vein in your body.

It’s good. Amazing, even. And it’s only making you want more. Bucky, it seems, feels much the same.

“C’mere,” he rasps, tone leaving no room for arguing, never mind that you wouldn’t have argued anyway.

You sit up on the couch, knee-walking over to where he’s still in his slumped position, never pulling your hand away from your clit because it feels like you’d cry if you did. Bucky curses under his breath and lets go of his cock to firmly grab you by the hips and tug you onto his lap. Your pussy ends up aligned perfectly with his cock, and you both shudder as you begin gliding back and forth across it, small movements that only increase the suspense of what likely comes next. He meets your eyes, red and glazed over from both the high and the toe-curling feeling of his cock along your wet center.

The kiss, when it happens, tastes like weed and the peanut M&M’s you both were snacking on just a little while ago. Bucky's tongue licks into your mouth like he can’t get enough, nips at your bottom lip to hear you whimper, gets a fistful of your hair and pulls and guides you until you’re pliant for him.

He knocks your hand away from your clit, but before you can complain about it he’s nudging the head of his cock against your entrance and you’re gasping all over again, grinding sloppily as you try to get him inside you. He finally sinks the head in and you allow gravity to aid you in taking the rest of him, moaning brokenly and high pitched at the stretch of him inside you. Bucky groans deep in his chest, hands clutching your waist like a lifeline as you slowly circle your hips, getting used to the feeling.

You stay like that for a few minutes, your breath and Bucky’s mixing hotly between you, and then you finally start fucking yourself on his cock. He grunts when you clench around him on the downstroke. You decide you like the sound, and you really wanna hear it again, so you repeat the action, moaning when the grunt is accompanied by a curse and his fingernails biting into your skin.

It takes what feels like ages for you to realize your thighs and knees ache from riding him, the weed making everything feel like it’s floating, including yourself, but Bucky sees the furrow in your brows and the shaking strain of your legs, and in the next second, he’s got you both moved from the couch to the floor. Time ticks on glacially slow like molasses as you stare up at him whipping his shirt off from where you’re sprawled on the carpet, your limbs shifting lethargically when he spreads your legs to better fit himself between them.

He fucks you hard, but not fast. you’re both much too high for anything fast, yet it still feels like your heart is going to pulse out of your chest, rabbiting away like you’ve run a marathon. Bucky buries his face in your neck, mouthing at your skin while he thrusts almost lazily.

Suddenly, his large hands encapsulate your hips, fingers pressing into the fleshiest parts of them as he sits up, getting his knees under him so he can rest on his haunches. He keeps your ass in his lap and your legs spread on either side of his waist. It makes your back arch and hips tilt up into a position that has you shuddering and sobbing when he begins to grind his thick cock deeper into you.

“I could stay buried in you for hours,” he mutters.

He reaches for the throw pillows on the couch and puts them under your hips, and then he fucks into you so hard it steals the breath right from your lungs, your mouth hanging open on a silent cry. His thrusts are sharper now, angled to perfection and making your toes curl so hard you fear them cramping and body jolt when he glides all the way back in. You gasp when Bucky rips open your shirt (his shirt, your mind helpfully supplies) and sends the buttons scattering across the floor. Those will be a bitch to find and clean up, but that’s a problem for much later.

“Fuck,” he grunts when he sees the piercings glinting in your nipples. “I fucking knew it,” he continues, squeezing each of your breasts in his hands and pinching your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, making you gasp again, pushing up into the sensation.

“Knew—“ You cut off with a whine when he pinches harder. “Knew what?”

“You walk around here wearing those goddamn cropped tank tops as tight as possible with no bra. Thought I was going crazy when I saw what looked like piercings underneath them,” he confesses as his hands travel back down to grip your waist, never losing his rhythm while he pulls you down to meet his thrusts.

At the sight of your tits bouncing with the movement of his hips, he groans, gravelly, his top lip curling as he grits his teeth and squeezes your hips so hard it hurts, and it only adds to your pleasure. With the way your skin is tingling, your pussy fluttering around him nonstop, you’re not sure if it’s because Bucky is fucking you that well or if it’s the weed. It’s probably both, and you have a split second thought that you’ll just have to test that theory once the high wears off.

It’s almost ironic, you think, how wet and messy your cunt is compared to how dry your mouth feels. It probably doesn’t help that your jaw seems to be permanently slack as you’re unable to stop your gasping inhales, only to exhale sounds you might be embarrassed about if you were clear-headed. Alas, your mind is a lot more focused on the way Bucky is splitting you open and carving a space inside you all for himself.

“So much better,” you whisper absently, fingers clawing at the carpet beneath you.

“Better than what?” he wonders, shifting to grip under your knees and push them up, changing the angle.

You cry out sharply, writhing uselessly in his hold. “My imagination,” you whimper.

Through bleary, tear filled eyes, you glance up at him just in time to see his lips pull into a boyish smirk.

“Mine too,” he confesses and sends you reeling.

You whine and reach down quickly to rub your throbbing clit, your whole body jerking as your pleasure mounts higher and higher. Bucky moans as he watches, stare trained on where you’re joined. His speed does pick up then, the slightest bit, a shudder wracking his frame as you clench down on him, head tipping back and exposing the long expanse of his throat for a brief moment before he suddenly leans over you, letting your legs fall into the cradle of his elbows.

“Won’t you be good for me and cum?” he asks, breathless, hips never letting up.

You open your mouth to reply but all that comes out is a strangled cry of his name, your fingers keeping their pace as your climax swells until it overflows, bursting like a firework and pleasure like you’ve never felt before sparks through every vein, muscle, and bone within you. Bucky curses in such a way it would make a sailor blush as you pulse around him. The sounds of your orgasm and his thrusts meeting your hips are the filthiest things you’ve ever heard, and it doesn’t stop for several moments, dragging on and on. It leaves you trembling and shaking and trying futilely to gather air in your lungs as he refuses to let up.

With great resolve, you bring your wet fingers away from your sensitive clit and up to his panting mouth. He groans at your taste, licking and sucking on your fingers as he chases his own release.

“Please,” you whisper, tears finally escaping your lashes and trailing down the sides of your face, and that seems to be his undoing.

Bucky moans, something high and broken, fucking into you rough enough that you’re worried about carpet burn. But then he pauses, gasping as he finally lets go and rides out his high.

Your hand slips from his mouth and falls to the floor like a deadweight. The only noise in the room now is the both your and Bucky’s harsh breathing and the television still playing that stupid fucking show. Bucky doesn’t move right away, of which you’re very thankful, because you’re not ready to feel the emptiness you know is coming, and it feels nice in a weird way to have him buried in you.

“Fuck,” he exhales, breaking the relative silence.

It makes you giggle, a small thing that turns into something uncontrollable, and when you manage to look at Bucky, he’s grinning in a dopey way that sets you off even more.

This is definitely something the two of you will have to talk about when you’re both sober, but like the buttons, that can be handled later. Although, something tells you it’ll all turn out just fine.

[joaosnovia]

hey ho soooo franco gets a frustrating penalty or something goes wrong with the engine, and he’s spiraling a bit. gf is just there being calm, comforting, flipping through a magazine while he decompresses. later they watch a movie together like they always do after race weekends.

bonus idea: maybe she missed the last race because she had to be a replacement bridesmaid, and now that she’s back, they have their own little celebration

❦ - fiesta 4 u.

warnings:: none.

writers notes:: ONLY POSTED THIS BC ITS HIS BDAY 💔. anyways feliz cumpleanos to him!

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

the door doesn’t slam.

it crashes.

helmet hits the floor next. loud. rolls once, twice, then thuds into the hallway wall and stops. he’s swearing, under his breath but vicious, like he’s holding onto each word just so he doesn’t fall apart entirely.

you don’t flinch.

you’re sprawled across the couch like nothing’s burning, legs stretched, magazine in hand, hoodie two sizes too big. it’s his. you knew he needed to see you in it. grounded. home. waiting.

‘do you want me to ask what happened,’ you call out, voice low, ‘or do you wanna pretend the universe just personally keyed your car?’

no answer.

you hear him pacing. shoes still on, so every step’s a stomp.

then finally:
‘five seconds. five fucking seconds. for something i didn’t do.’

he storms into view, hair a mess, suit half undone, rage practically vibrating off him.

‘five seconds for what? for existing? for breathing too hard on lap twelve? and then the engine starts coughing like it’s got asthma and i’m just…’ he throws his arms up, spins in a half-circle, ‘i’m out there driving like my life depends on it and for what? for p18 and a stupid fine and nothing else to show for it.’

you set the magazine down. sit up a little.
still calm. still watching.

‘that all?’

he glares at you. chest heaving.
but the edge in his eyes softens.

you pat the space next to you.

‘come crash. you’re over revving.’

he hesitates.

you tilt your head. ‘don’t make me say it again.’

he comes.

drops onto the couch next to you, body heavy, head in his hands. he’s not talking anymore. just breathing fast, shallow. locked in his own head. you’ve seen it before, not often, but enough. when the pressure builds so bad it leaks into everything.

you reach over. hand on the back of his neck. not soft. firm. grounding. thumb brushing slow just below his ear.

‘you’re allowed to lose it,’ you murmur. ‘just not alone.’

he leans into it. into you.

‘they made me feel invisible,’ he says, voice quieter now. almost cracked. ‘like i could’ve driven blindfolded and it wouldn’t have changed shit. like… i don’t matter.’

you turn to him fully, tucking one leg under the other, both hands now on either side of his face.

‘look at me.’

he does.

‘you do matter. and not just on track. not just when you’re fast. you matter in sweat and flame and fury. and you matter right now, pissed off and exhausted and sitting on this couch like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.’

he stares at you. breathing a little steadier.

‘you’re scary good at this,’ he mutters.

‘that’s because you suck at spiraling in silence. you’re all dramatic about it.’

he actually laughs, a short, surprised huff. you grin, kiss the corner of his mouth.

‘better?’

‘a little.’

‘good. now take a breath. shower. change. and come back out here, because i ordered pizza and we’re watching rush like we always do after race weekends. yes, even when you hate racing.’

he kisses your forehead.

you let him go.

and when he comes back, damp hair, hoodie on, hands wrapped around a slice of pizza and eyes finally soft, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that went right today.

because maybe you are.

BONUS IDEA

you didn’t get to be there last weekend.

you’d tried. fought for it, rearranged everything, packed your bag and printed your pass, and then the call came.

your friend’s bridesmaid caught the flu. one of the main girls. wedding in forty eight hours. you were the backup.

so you put away your alpine pink nails and packed a pastel dress instead. smiled through photos, caught the bouquet, drank the champagne, and watched the race on your phone in a linen suite bathroom with the sound off and your heart clenched.

he hadn’t blamed you. not once.

but he’d felt it.

the silence on the comms. the empty place in the paddock. the missing hand in his hair when he needed it most.

and you’d felt it too.

so when you show up at the door this week, hoodie on, suitcase behind you, wide eyed from the airport, soft grin playing at your lips, franco doesn’t say anything.

he just pulls you in. holds you there.

for a long time.

you spend the whole day inside. no big reunion plans, no parties, no dinners out.

just the two of you.

he’s calmer now. rested. there’s still a flicker of frustration behind his eyes, but it doesn’t own him anymore. it’s quieter.

you eat lunch on the floor. half laughing, half dozing, your leg over his.

he lets you rest your head on his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if you don’t.

and when the sun starts setting, orange slicing through the window, casting soft stripes across the floor, he disappears into the other room for a second.

when he comes back, he’s holding a tiny pink cupcake.

you blink.

‘what is this?’

‘you missed my worst race weekend of the year,’ he says, crouching in front of you with that sheepish grin. ‘so now that you’re back, we’re celebrating that you’re my good luck charm. and that i’m not letting you out of my sight for the next one.’

you laugh. it catches in your throat.

‘you’re ridiculous.’

‘you love it.’

you do. so much it aches.

you take the cupcake. snap it in half. feed him the bigger piece.

‘you didn’t have to do this,’ you murmur. ‘i’m not… anything special.’

he leans in. eyes locked on yours.

‘yes, you are.’

your face is warm.

‘stop.’

‘no,’ he says softly, brushing a crumb from your lip. ‘you’re the one thing that makes all of this make sense. the one person who shows up whether i’m p3 or p18. the one who waits, magazine in hand, hoodie on, calm like a lighthouse. and when everything’s chaos, you stay. you choose me.’

you don’t answer right away.

you just press your forehead to his.

and he closes his eyes. exhales like that touch alone fixed him.

because maybe it did.

because maybe this isn’t about podiums or penalties or whatever else broke last sunday.

maybe it’s just this.

you. him. a cupcake. and the quiet feeling of finally, finally coming home.